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THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

0¥  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


GIFT  OF 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2008  with  funding  from 

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http://www.archive.org/details/adamevepinchmetaOOcopp 


ADAM  G?  EVE 
&  PINCH    ME 


NEW  BORZOI  NOVELS 
SPRING.  1922 

Wanderers 

Knut  Hamsun 
Men  of  Affairs 

Roland  Pertivee 
The  Fair  Rewards 

Thomas   Beer 
I  Walked  in  Arden 

Jack  Craivford 
Guest  the  One-Eyed 

Gunnar  Gunnarsson 
The  Longest  Journey 

E.  M.  Forster 
Cytherea 

Joseph  Hergesheimer 
Explorers  of  the  Dawn 

Mazo  de  la  Roche 
The  White  Kami 

Edijjard  A  Id  en  Jewell 

ADAM  £f  EVE 
&  PINCH  ME 

TALES    BY    A.   E.    COPPARD 


NEW  YORK  ALFRED -A- KNOPF  mcmxxii 


COPYRIGHT,  1922,  BY 
A.  E.  COPPARD 

Published,  May,  192Z 


Bet  up  and  printed  ty  the  Vail-Ballou  Co.,  Binohamton,  N.  Y. 
Paper  furnished  by  W.  F.  Etherington  &  Co.,  New  York,  N.  Y. 
Bound  hu  the  H.  WoW  Estate,  Neto  York,  N.  Y. 


MANUFACTURED     IN     THE     UNITED     STATES     OF     AMERICA 


i^ 


fZ 


To  LILY  ANNE 


5G^'i<£4 


I  record  my  acknowledgements  to  the  Editors 
of  the  following  journals  in  which  a  few  of 
these  tales  first  appeared :  Westminster  Ga- 
zette, Pearson's  Magazine,  Voices,  English 
Review.  A.  E.  C. 


CONTENTS 

MARCHING  TO  ZION  9 

DUSKY  RUTH  29 

WEEP   NOT   MY  WANTON  45 

PIFFINGCAP  53 

THE  KING  OF  THE  WORLD  7I 

ADAM  AND  EVE  AND  PINCH  ME  83 

THE  PRINCESS  OF  KINGDOM  GONE  Idf 

COMMUNION  III 

THE  QUIET  WOMAN  II9 

THE  TRUMPETERS  I4I 

THE  ANGEL  AND  THE  SWEEP  151 

ARABESQUE  163 

FELIX  TINCLER  175 

THE  ELIXIR  OF  YOUTH  191' 

THE  CHERRY  TREE  207 

CLORINDA  WALKS  IN  HEAVEN  215 

CRAVEN  ARMS  22^ 


CONTENTS 

COTTON  267 

A  BROADSHEET  BALLAD  283 

POMONA'S  BABE  295 

THE   HURLY-BURLY  319 


MARCHING  TO  ZION 


MARCHING  TO  ZION 

IN  the  great  days  that  are  gone  I  was  walking  the 
Journey  upon  its  easy  smihng  roads  and  came 
one  morning  of  windy  spring  to  the  side  of  a 
wood.  I  had  but  just  rested  to  eat  my  crusts  and 
suck  a  drink  from  the  pool  when  a  fat  woman  appeared 
and  sat  down  before  me.  I  gave  her  the  grace  of  the 
morning. 

"And  how  many  miles  is  it  now?"  I  asked  of  her. 

"What!"  said  she,  "you're  not  going  the  journey?" 

"Sure,  ma'am,"  said  I,  "I'm  going,  and  you're  going, 
and  we're  all  going  .  .  .  aren't  we?" 

"Not,"  said  she,  looking  at  me  very  archly,  "not 
while  there  are  well-looking  young  fellers  sitting  in  the 
woods." 

"Well,  deliver  me!"  said  I,  "d'ye  take  me  for  the 
Angel  Gabriel  or  the  duke  of  the  world!" 

"It's  not  anything  Fm  taking  you  to  be,  young  man 
.  .  .  give  me  a  chew  of  that  bread." 

She  came  and  sat  beside  me  and  took  it  from  my 
hands. 

"Little  woman.  .  ."  I  began  it  to  her;  but  at  that 
she  flung  the  crust  back  in  my  face,  laughing  and 
choking  and  screaming. 

"Me  .  .  .  that's  fat  as  a  ewe  in  January !" 
9 


lO  MARCHING  TO  ZION 

"Fat,  woman !"  says  I,  "you're  no  fat  at  all." 

But,  I  declare  it,  she'd  a  bosom  like  a  bolster.  I  lay 
on  my  back  beside  her.  She  was  a  rag  of  a  woman. 
I  looked  up  through  the  tree  branches  at  the  end  of 
the  shaw;  they  were  bare,  spring  was  late  that  year. 
The  sky  was  that  blue  .  .  .  there  wasn't  a  cloud  within 
a  million  miles  .  .  .  but  up  through  the  boughs  it 
looked  hard  and  steely  like  a  storm  sky.  I  took  my 
hat  from  her,  for  she  had  put  it  on  her  own  head,  and 
I  stood  on  my  feet. 

"Fat,  ma'am !"  says  I  .  .  .  and  she  looked  up  at  me, 
grinning  like  a  stuffed  fox  .  .  .  "Oh  no,  ma'am,  you're 
slim  as  the  queen  of  Egypt!" 

At  that  she  called  out  to  another  man  who  was  pass- 
ing us  by,  and  I  went  to  walk  on  with  him.  He  had  a 
<^  furuncle  on  one  side  of  his  chin;  his  garments  were 
very  old,  both  in  fashion  and  in  use ;  he  was  lean  as  a 
mountain  cow, 

I  greeted  him  but  he  gave  me  glances  that  were 
isurly,  like  a  man  would  be  grinding  scissors  or  set- 
ting a  saw — for  you  never  met  one  of  that  kind  that 
didn't  have  the  woe  of  the  world  upon  him. 

"How  many  miles  is  it  now,  sir?"  I  asked,  very 
respectful  then.  He  did  not  heed  me.  He  put  his 
hand  to  his  ear  signifying  deafness.  I  shouted  and 
I  shouted,  so  you  could  have  heard  me  in  the  four 
kingdoms,  but  I  might  just  have  been  blowing  in  a 
sack  for  all  the  reason  I  got  from  him. 

I  went  on  alone  and  in  the  course  of  the  days  I  fell 
in  with  many  persons,  stupid  persons,  great  persons, 
jaunty  ones.     An  ass  passes  me  by,  its  cart  burdened 


MARCHING  TO  ZION  II 

with  a  few  dead  sprays  of  larch  and  a  log  for  the  fir- 
ing. An  old  man  toils  at  the  side  urging  the  ass  on- 
wards. They  give  me  no  direction  and  I  wonder 
whether  I  am  at  all  like  the  ass,  or  the  man,  or  the 
cart,  or  the  log  for  the  firing,  I  cannot  say.  There 
was  the  lad  McGlosky,  who  had  the  fine  hound  that 
would  even  catch  birds ;  the  philosopher  who  had  two 
minds ;  the  widow  with  one  leg ;  Slatterby  Chough,  the 
pugfoot  man,  and  Grafton.  I  passed  a  little  time  with 
them  all,  and  made  poems  about  them  that  they  did  not 
like,  but  I  was  ever  for  walking  on  from  them.  None 
of  them  could  give  me  a  direction  for  the  thing  that 
was  urging  me  except  that  it  was  "away  on.  away 
on. 

Walk  I  did,  and  it  was  full  summer  when  I  met 
Monk,  the  fat  fellow  as  big  as  two  men  with  but  the 
clothes  of  a  small  one  squeezing  the  joints  of  him  to- 
gether. Would  you  look  at  the  hair  of  him — it  was 
light  as  a  stook  of  rye;  or  the  face  of  him  and  the 
neck  of  him — the  hue  of  a  new  brick.  He  had  the 
mind  of  a  grasshopper,  the  strength  of  a  dray  horse, 
the  tenderness  of  a  bush  of  reeds,  and  was  light  on 
his  limbs  as  a  deer. 

"Look  ye're,"  he  said  to  me;  he  had  a  stilT  sort  of 
talk,  and  fat  thumbs  like  a  mason  that  he  jiggled  in 
the  corners  of  his  pockets;  "look  ye're.  my  friend, 
my  name  is  Monk." 

"I  am  Michael  Fionnguisa,"  said  I. 

"Well  I  never  struck  fist  with  a  lad  like  you ;  your 
conversation  is  agreeable  to  me,  you  have  a  stride  on 
you  would  beat  the  world  for  greatness." 


12  MARCHING  TO  ZION 

"I  could  beat  you,"  said  I,  "even  if  you  wore  the 
boots  of  Hercules  that  had  wings  on  'em." 

"It  is  what  I  like,"  said  he,  and  he  made  a  great 
mess  of  my  boasting  before  we  were  through.  "Look 
ye're,  my  friend,  we  needn't  brag  our  little  eye-blink 
of  the  world ;  but  take  my  general  character  and  you'll 
find  I'm  better  than  my  .  .  .  inferiors.  I  accomplish 
my  ridiculous  destiny  without  any  ridiculous  effort. 
I'm  the  man  to  go  a-travelling  with," 

He  had  that  stiff  way  of  his  talk,  like  a  man  lec- 
turing on  a  stool,  but  my  mercy,  he'd  a  tongue  of 
silk  that  could  twist  a  meal  out  of  the  pantry  of  Jews 
and  strange  hard  people;  fat  landladies,  the  wives  of 
the  street,  the  widows  in  their  villas,  they  would  feed 
him  until  he  groaned,  loving  him  for  his  blitheness  and 
his  tales.  He  could  not  know  the  meaning  of  want 
though  he  had  never  a  coin  in  the  world.  Yet  he  did 
not  love  towns;  he  would  walk  wide-eyed  through 
them  counting  the  seams  in  the  pavements.  He  liked 
most  to  be  staring  at  the  gallant  fishes  in  the  streams, 
and  gasping  when  he  saw  a  great  one. 

I  met  him  in  the  hills  and  we  were  gone  together. 
And  it  was  not  a  great  while  before  he  was  doing  and 
doing,  for  we  came  and  saw  a  man  committing  a  crime, 
a  grave  crime  to  be  done  in  a  bad  world  leave  alone 
a  good  one  like  this,  in  a  very  lonely  lovely  place. 
So  Monk  rose  up  and  slew  him,  and  the  woman  ran 
blushing  into  the  woods. 

I  looked  at  Mr.  Monk,  and  the  dead  man  on  the 
road,  and  then  at  Mr.  Monk  again. 


MARCHING  TO  ZION  13 

"Well,"  I  said,  "we'd  .  .  .  we'd  better  bury  this 
feller." 

But  Monk  went  and  sat  upon  a  bank  and  wiped 
his  neck.  The  other  lay  upon  his  face  as  if  he  were 
sniffing  at  the  road;  I  could  see  his  ear  was  full  of 
blood,  it  slipped  over  the  lobe  drip  by  drip  as  neat  as 
a  clock  would  tick. 

And  Monk,  he  said :  "Look  ye're,  my  friend,  there 
are  dirtier  things  tlian  dirt,  and  I  would  not  like  to 
mix  this  with  the  earth  of  our  country." 

So  we  slung  him  into  an  old  well  with  a  stone  upon 
his  loins. 

And  a  time  after  that  we  saw  another  man  commit- 
ting crime,  a  mean  crime  that  you  might  do  and  wel- 
come in  America  or  some  such  region,  but  was  not 
fitting  to  be  done  in  our  country. 

So  Monk  rose  up  and  slew  him.  Awful  it  was  to 
see  what  Monk  did  to  him.  He  was  a  great  killer 
and  fighter;  Hector  himself  was  but  a  bit  of  a  page 
boy  to  Mr.  Monk. 

"Shall  we  give  him  an  interment?"  I  asked  him.  He 
stood  wiping  his  neck — he  was  always  wiping  his  neck 
— and  Monk  he  said : 

"Look  ye're,  my  friend,  he  was  a  beast;  a  man 
needn't  live  in  a  sty  in  order  to  become  a  pig,  and  we 
won't  give  him  an  interment."  So  we  heaved  him 
into  a  slag  pit  among  rats  and  ravels  of  iron. 

And  would  you  believe  it,  again  we  saw  a  man  com- 
mitting crime,  crime  indeed  and  a  very  bad  crime. 

There  was  no  withstanding  Monk;  he  rose  up  and 


14  MARCHING  TO  ZION 

slew  the  man  as  dead  as  the  poor  beast  he  had  tor- 
tured. 

"God-a-mercy !"  I  said  to  him,  "it's  a  lot  of  hfe 
you're  taking,  Mr.  Monk." 

And  Monk  he  said:  "Life,  Michael  dear,  is  the  thing 
we  perish  by."  He  had  the  most  terrible  angers  and 
yet  was  kind,  kind ;  nothing  could  exceed  the  greatness 
of  his  mind  or  the  vigour  of  his  limbs. 

Those  were  the  three  combats  of  Monk,  but  he  was 
changed  from  that  out.  Whenever  we  came  to  any 
habitations  now  he  would  not  call  at  back  doors,  nor 
go  stravaiging  in  yards  for  odd  pieces  to  eat,  but  he 
would  go  gallantly  into  an  inn  and  offer  his  payment 
for  the  things  we  would  like.  I  could  not  understand 
it  at  all,  but  he  was  a  great  man  and  a  kind. 

"Where  did  you  get  that  treasure?"  said  I  to  him 
after  days  of  it.  "Has  some  noble  person  given  you 
a  gift?" 

He  did  not  answer  me  so  I  asked  him  over  again. 
"Eh !" 

And  Monk  he  said,  "Oh  well  then,  there  was  a  lot 
of  coin  in  the  fob  of  that  feller  we  chucked  in  the  well." 

I  looked  very  straight  at  Mr.  Monk,  very  straight  at 
that,  but  I  could  not  speak  the  things  my  mind  wanted 
me  to  say,  and  he  said  very  artfully :  "Don't  distress 
yourself,  Michael  dear,  over  a  little  contest  between 
sense  and  sentiment." 

"But  that  was  the  dirty  man,"  said  I. 

"And  why  not?"  said  he.  "If  his  deed  was  dirty, 
his  money  was  clean :  don't  be  deethery,  man." 

" 'Tis  not  fitting  nor  honourable,"  said. I,  "for  men 


MARCHING  TO  ZION  l^ 

the  like  of  us  to  grow  fat  on  his  fiUh.  It's  grass  I'd 
be  eating  sooner." 

"Tliat's  all  bombazine,  Michael,  bombazine!  I 
got  two  dollars  more  from  the  feller  we  chucked  in 
the  pit!" 

"Mr.  Monk,  that  was  the  pig !"  said  T. 

"And  why  not?"  said  he.  "If  his  life  was  bad  then 
his  end  must  be  good ;  don't  be  deethery." 

"You  can't  touch  pitch,"  I  said.  .  .  . 

"Who's  touching  pitch?"  he  cried.  "Amn't  I  en- 
titled to  the  spoils  of  the  valiant,  the  rewards  of  the 
conqueror.  .  .  ." 

"Bombazine!"  says  I  to  him. 

"O  begod !"  he  says,  "I  never  struck  fist  on  a  lad 
the  like  of  you,  with  your  bombazine  O!  I  grant  you 
it  doesn't  come  affable  like,  but  what  costs  you  nothing 
can't  be  dear;  as  for  compunctions,  you'll  see,  I  fatten 
on  'em !" 

He  laughed  outright  at  me. 

"Don't  be  deethery,  Michael,  there  was  a  good  purse 
in  the  last  man's  trousers !" 

I  could  no  more  complain  to  him ;  how  could  I  under 
the  Lord !  Dear  me,  it  never  was  seen,  a  man  with  the 
skin  of  that  man ;  he'd  the  mind  of  a  grasshopper, 
but  there  was  greatness  in  him,  and  Mary  herself 
loved  him  for  a  friend. 

What  do  I  say  about  Mary !  Ah,  there  was  never 
in  anything  that  had  the  aspects  of  a  world  a  girl  with 
her  loveliness,  I  tell  you,  handsome  as  a  lily,  the  jewel  of 
the  world ;  and  the  thing  that  hapi^encd  between  us 
was  strange  above  all   reckoning.     We  gave  her  the 


1 6  MARCHING  TO  ZION 

good  will  of  the  evening  in  a  place  that  would  be  as 
grand  as  Eden  itself,  though  the  bushes  had  grown 
dim  on  the  hills  and  the  sod  was  darkening  beside  the 
white  water  of  the  streams. 

"And  are  you  going  the  Journey?"  we  asked  of  her. 

"I  am  going,"  said  she,  "everybody  is  going,  why 
not  me  too  ?" 

"Will  you  go  along  with  us  ?"  I  asked  of  her. 

She  turned  her  eyes  upon  me  like  two  sparks  out 
of  the  blowing  dusk  that  was  already  upon  us. 

"Yes,  I  will  go  with  you." 

At  that  she  rested  her  hand  upon  my  arm  and  we 
turned  upon  the  road  together. 

She  was  barefooted  and  bareheaded,  dressed  in  a 
yellow  gown  that  had  buttons  of  ivory  upon  it. 

And  we  asked  her  as  we  went  along  the  streams: 
Had  she  no  fear  of  the  night  time? 

"When  the  four  ends  of  the  world  drop  on  you  like 
death?"  says  I. 

".  .  .  and  the  fogs  rise  up  on  you  like  moving 
grief?"  says  he. 

".  .  .  and  you  hear  the  hoofs  of  the  half  god  whisk- 
ing behind  the  hedges,"  says  I. 

".  .  .  and  there  are  bad  things  like  bats  troubling 
the  air!"  says  he. 

".  .  .  or  the  twig  of  a  tree  comes  and  touches  you 
like  a  finger !"  says  I. 

".  .  .  the  finger  of  some  meditating  doom !"  says 
he. 

"No,  I  am  not,"  cried  Mary,  "but  I  am  glad  to  be 
going  with  you." 


MARCHING  TO  ZION  1 7 

Her     hand     was     again     resting     upon     my     arm. 

I  lay  down  among  the  sheaves  of  wheat  that  night 
with  no  sleep  coming  to  me,  for  the  stars  were  spilling 
all  out  of  the  sky  and  it  seemed  the  richness  of  heaven 
was  flowing  down  upon  us  all. 

"Michael !"  Monk  whispered,  "she's  a  holy-minded 
girl:  look,  look,  she's  praying!" 

Sure  enough  I  could  see  her  a  little  way  oflF,  standing 
like  a  saint,  as  still  as  a  monument. 

Fresh  as  a  bird  was  our  gentle  comrade  in  the  dawn 
and  ready  to  be  going.  And  we  asked  her  as  we  went 
by  the  roads  together :  What  was  it  made  her  to  come 
the  Journey  alone? 

"Sure  there  is  no  loneliness  in  the  world,"  she  said. 

"Is  there  not?"  asked  Monk. 

"I  take  my  soul  with  me  upon  this  Journey,"  said 
Mary. 

"Your  what !" 

"My  soul,"  she  said  gravely,  "it  is  what  keeps  lone- 
liness from  me." 

He  mused  upon  that  a  little.  "Look  ye're,  Mary, 
soul  is  just  but  the  chain  of  eternal  mortality,  that  is 
what  I  think  it ;  but  you  speak  as  if  it  were  something 
you  pick  up  and  carry  about  with  you,  something  made 
of  gutta-percha,  like  a  tobacco  pouch." 

She  smiled  upon  him :  "It  is  what  covers  me  from 
loneliness  .  .  .  it's  .  .  .  it's  the  little  garment  which 
sometime  God  will  take  upon  him — being  God." 

Seven  days  only  and  seven  little  nights  we  were  to- 
gether and  I  made  scores  of  poems  about  her  that  were 
different   from  any  poems   that  have  come   into  the 


1 8  MARCHING  TO  ZION 

world,  but  I  could  never  sing  them  now.  In  the  morn- 
ings she  would  go  wash  herself  in  the  pools,  and  Monk 
and  I  would  walk  a  little  way  off  from  her.  Monk  was 
very  delicate  about  that,  but  I  would  turn  and  see  the 
white-armed  girl  rolling  up  her  dark  hair,  and  her  white 
feet  travelling  to  the  water  as  she  pulled  the  gown  from 
her  beauty.  She  was  made  like  the  down  of  doves 
and  the  bloom  of  bees.  It's  like  enough  she  did  love 
me  in  a  very  frail  and  delicate  sort  of  way,  like  a  bush 
of  lavendie  might  love  the  wind  that  would  be  snaring 
it  from  its  root  in  the  garden,  but  never  won  a  petal  of 
it,  nor  a  bloom,  only  a  little  of  its  kind  kind  air. 

We  asked  her  as  we  went  upon  the  hills :  Had  she  no 
fear  of  getting  her  death? 

"Not  if  I  make  a  wise  use  of  it." 

"A  use  of  your  death — and  how  would  you  do  that, 
tell  me,"  says  I. 

And  she  told  us  grand  things  about  death,  in  her 
soft  wonderful  voice;  strange  talk  to  be  giving  the 
likes  of  him  and  me. 

"I'd  give  the  heart  out  of  my  skin,"  said  I,  "not  to 
be  growing  old — the  sin  and  sorrow  of  the  world, 
with  no  hope  of  life  and  despair  in  its  conclusion." 

But  Monk  was  full  of  laughter  at  me. 

"Ha !  ha !  better  a  last  hope  than  a  hopeless  conclu- 
sion," says  Mr.  Monk;  "so  try  hope  with  another  loz- 
enge, Michael,  and  give  a  free  drink  to  despair." 

"Have  yoii  no  fear  of  death?"  Mary  asked  of  him. 

And  Monk,  he  said:  "I  have  no  unreasonable  re- 
gard for  him ;  I  may  bow  before  the  inevitable,  but  I 


MARCHING  TO  ZION  T9 

decline  to  grovel  before  it.  and  if  I  burn  witb  tbe  best 
of  'em — well,  I'd  ratber  be  torrid  tban  torpid." 

"It  would  be  well,"  said  Mary,  "to  praise  God  for 
such  courage." 

"Is  tbat  wbat  you  praise  him  for?"  we  asked  her. 

"I  praise  God  for  Jesus,"  Mary  said  to  us :  strange 
talk  to  be  giving  the  likes  of  him  and  me. 

We  found  the  finest  sleeping  nooks,  and  she  could 
not  have  rested  better  if  there  had  been  acres  of  silk; 
Monk,  God-a-mercy,  spent  his  money  like  a  baron. 
One  night  in  the  little  darkness  he  said : 

"Look  ye're,  Mary,  tell  us  why  you  pray !" 

"I  pray  because  of  a  dream  I  had." 

"A  dream!  That's  strange,  Mary;  I  could  under- 
stand a  person  dreaming  because  of  a  prayer  she  has 
prayed,  but  not  praying  because  of  a  dream  she  has 
dreamed." 

"Xot  even  supposing,"  I  said  to  him,  "you  had 
dreamed  you  were  praying  prayers?" 

"If  I  did,"  said  he,  "I  might  pray  not  to  dream  such 
dreams." 

"I  pray,"  said  Mary,  "that  my  dream  may  come 
true." 

And  Monk,  he  said,  "So  you  build  your  life  on  a 
prayer  and  a  dream  !" 

"I  do  not  build  my  life  at  all,"  said  Mary ;  "it's  my 
death  I  am  building,  in  a  wonderful  world  of  moun- 
tains .  .  ." 

".  .  .  that  can  never  be  climbed,"  cried  Monk. 

".  .  .  and  grand  rivers  .  .  ." 


20  MARCHING  TO  ZION 

that  stand  still  and   do  not  flow,"  says  he. 
and  bright  shining  fields.  .  .  ." 
that  will  never  come  to  the  reaping,"  says  he 
again 

and  if  the  climbing  and  the  flowing  and  the 
reaping  are  illusions  here,  they  are  real  in  the  dreams 
of  God." 

And  Monk,  he  said:  "If  God  himself  is  the  illusion, 
Mary,  there's  little  enough  reward  for  a  life  of  that 
kind,  or  the  death  of  it  either.  The  recompense  for 
living  is  Life — not  in  the  future  or  merely  in  the  pres- 
ent, but  life  in  the  past  where  all  our  intuitions  had 
their  mould,  and  all  our  joys  their  eternal  fountain." 

"Yes,  yes,"  I  added  to  him,  "beauty  walks  in  the 
track  of  the  mortal  world,  and  her  light  is  behind  you." 

She  was  silent.  "Mary,"  said  I,  "won't  you  tell  me 
now  that  dream  of  yours  ?" 

"I  will  not  tell  you  yet,  Michael,"  said  she. 

But  on  a  day  after  that  we  came  to  a  plain,  in  it  a 
great  mountain;  and  we  went  away  on  to  the  moun- 
tain and  commenced  to  climb.  Near  the  top  it  was  as 
if  part  of  the  cone  of  the  mountain  had  been  blown  out 
by  the  side  and  a  sweet  lake  of  water  left  winking  in 
the  scoop.  We  came  suddenly  upon  it;  all  the  cloven 
cliffs  that  hung  round  three  sides  of  the  lake  were  of 
white  marble,  blazing  with  a  lustre  that  crashed  upon 
our  eyes ;  the  floor  of  the  lake,  easy  to  be  seen,  was  of 
white  marble  too,  and  the  water  was  that  clear  you 
could  see  the  big  black  hole  in  the  middle  where  it 
bubbled  from  the  abyss.  There  were  beds  of  heather 
around  us  with  white  quoins  of  marble,  like  chapels 


MARCHING  TO  ZION  BI 

or  shrines,  sunk  amid  them;  this,  and  the  great  golden 
plain  rolling  below,  far  from  us,  on  every  side,  almost 
as  far  away  as  the  sky.  When  we  came  to  this  place 
Monk  touched  my  arm ;  we  both  looked  at  Mary,  walk- 
ing beside  the  lake  like  a  person  who  knew  well  the 
marvel  that  zve  were  but  just  seeing.  She  was  speaking 
strange  words — we  could  not  understand. 

"Let  us  leave  her  to  herself  awhile,"  said  Monk. 

And  we  climbed  round  behind  the  white  clififs  until 
we  left  each  other.  I  went  back  alone  and  found  her 
lying  in  the  heather  beside  a  stone  shaped  like  an  altar, 
sleeping.  I  knelt  down  beside  her  with  a  love  in  my 
heart  that  was  greater  than  the  mere  life  beating  in  it. 
She  lay  very  still  and  beautiful,  and  I  put  into  her  hand 
a  sprig  of  the  red  rowan  which  I  had  found.  I 
watched  the  wind  just  hoisting  the  strands  of  her  hair 
that  was  twisted  in  the  heather. 

The  glister  was  gone  from  the  cliffs,  they  were  softly 
white  like  magnolia  flowers ;  the  lake  water  splashed  its 
little  words  in  the  quarries.  Her  lips  were  red  as  the 
rowan  buds,  the  balm  of  lilies  was  in  the  touch  of  them. 

She  opened  her  eyes  on  me  kneeling  beside  her. 

"Mary,"  said  I,  "I  will  tell  you  what  I'm  thinking. 
There  is  a  great  doubt  in  my  mind,  Mary,  and  I'm  in 
fear  that  you'll  be  gone  from  me." 

For  answer  she  drew  me  down  to  her  side  until  my 
face  was  resting  against  her  heart;  I  could  hear  its 
little  thunder  in  her  breast.  And  I  leaned  up  until  I 
was  looking  deeply  in  her  eyes. 

"You  are  like  the  dreaming  dawn,"  I  said,  "beautiful 
and  silent.     You're  the  daughter  of  all  the  dawns  that 


22  MARCHING  TO  ZION 

ever  were,  and  I'd  perish  if  you'd  be  gone  from  me." 
"It's  beautiful  to  be  in  the  world  with  you,  Michael, 
and  to  feel  your  strength  about  me." 

"It's  lonely  to  be  in  the  world  with  you,  Mary,  and 
no  hope  in  my  heart,  but  doubt  filling  it." 
"I  will  bring  you  into  my  heaven,  Michael." 
"Mary,  it's  in  a  little  thicket  of  cedar  I  would  sit 
with  you,  hearing  the  wild  bee's  hymn;  beautiful  grapes 
I  would  give  you,  and  apples  rich  as  the  moon." 

We  were  silent  for  a  while  and  then  she  told  me  what 
I  have  written  here  of  her  own  fine  words  as  I  remem- 
ber them.  We  were  sitting  against  the  white  altar 
stone,  the  sun  was  setting;  there  was  one  great  gulf 
of  brightness  in  the  west  of  the  sky,  and  pieces  of 
fiery  cloud,  little  flukes  of  flame  shaped  like  fishes, 
swimming  there.  In  the  hinder  part  of  the  sky  a  great 
bush-tailed  animal  had  sprung  into  its  dying  fields,  a 
purple  fox. 

"I  dreamed,"  said  Mary,  "  that  I  was  in  marriage 
with  a  carpenter.  His  name  was  Joseph  and  he  was 
older  than  I  by  many  years.  He  left  me  at  the 
marriage  and  went  away  to  Liverpool ;  there  was  a  great 
strike  on  in  that  place,  but  what  he  was  to  do  there  or 
why  he  was  gone  I  do  not  know.  It  was  at  Easter, 
and  when  I  woke  in  my  bed  on  the  first  morning  there 
was  bright  wind  blowing  in  the  curtains,  and  sun  upon 
the  bed  linen.  Some  cattle  were  lowing  and  I  heard 
the  very  first  cuckoo  of  the  year.  I  can  remember  the 
round  looking  glass  with  a  brass  frame  upon  the  table, 
and  the  queer  little  alabaster  jar  of  scented  oil.  There 
was  a  picture  of  some  cranes  flying  on  the  wall,  and  a 


MARCHING  TO  ZION  23 

china  figure  of  a  man  called  O'Connell  on  the  shelf 
above  the  fire-place.  My  white  veil  was  blown  from  its 
hook  down  on  the  floor,  and  it  was  strewed  over  with 
daffodils  I  had  carried  to  my  marriage. 

"And  at  that  a  figure  was  in  the  room — I  don't  know 
how — he  just  came,  dressed  in  strange  clothes,  a  dark 
handsome  young  man  with  black  long  hair  and  smihng 
eyes,  full  of  every  grace,  and  I  loved  him  on  the  mo- 
ment. But  he  took  up  some  of  my  daffodils  only — 
and  vanished.  Then  I  remember  getting  up,  and  after 
breakfast  I  walked  about  the  fields  very  happy.  There 
was  a  letter  at  the  post  office  from  my  husband :  I  took 
it  home  and  dropped  it  into  the  fire  unopened.  I  put 
the  little  house  into  its  order  and  set  the  daffodils  in  a 
bowl  close  upon  the  bedroom  window.  And  at  night 
in  the  darkness,  when  I  could  not  see  him,  the  dark 
man  came  to  my  bed,  but  was  gone  before  the  morning, 
taking  more  of  my  daffodils  with  him.  And  this 
happened  night  upon  night  until  all  my  flowers  were 
gone,  and  then  he  came  no  more. 

"It  was  a  long  time  before  my  husband  came  home 
from  Liverpool  but  he  came  at  last  and  we  lived  very 
happily  until  Christmas  when  T  had  a  little  child." 

"And  did  you  have  a  child?"  I  asked  her. 

"No,"  she  said,  "this  was  all  my  dream.  Michael, 
O  Michael,  you  are  like  that  lover  of  the  darkness." 

And  just  then  Monk  came  back  among  us  roaring 
for  food. 

I  gave  him  the  bag  I  had  carried  and  he  helped  him- 
self. 

"I  do  not  feel  the  need  of  it,"  said  Mary. 


24  MARCHING  TO  ZION 

"I  do  not  feel  the  need  of  it,"  said  I. 

When  he  had  told  U5  his  tales  and  the  darkness  was 
come  we  went  to  rest  among  the  heather. 

The  wild  stars  were  flowing  over  the  sky,  for  it  was 
the  time  of  the  year  when  they  do  fall.  Three  of  them 
dropped  together  into  the  plain  near  the  foot  of  the 
mountain,  but  I  lay  with  the  bride  of  dreams  in  my 
arms  and  if  the  lake  and  the  mountain  itself  had  been 
heaped  with  immortal  stars  I  would  not  have  stirred. 
Yet  in  the  morning  when  I  awoke  I  was  alone.  There 
was  a  new  sprig  of  the  rowan  in  my  hand;  the  grand 
sun  was  warm  on  the  rocks  and  the  heather.  I  stood 
up  and  could  hear  a  few  birds  in  the  thickets  below, 
little  showers  of  faint  music.  Mary  and  Monk  were 
conversing  on  a  ridge  under  the  bank  of  the  lake.  I 
went  to  them,  and  Monk  touched  my  arm  again  as  if 
to  give  me  a  warning  but  I  had  no  eyes  for  him,  Mary 
was  speaking  and  pointing. 

"Do  you  see,  Michael,  that  green  place  at  the  foot  of 
the  mountain?" 

'T  do,  I  see  a  fine  green  ring." 

"Do  you  see  what  is  in  it?" 

"Nothing  is  in  it,"  I  said,  and  indeed  it  was  a  bare 
open  spot  in  the  ring  of  a  fence,  a  green  slant  in  the 
stubbles. 

She  stared  at  me  with  strangely  troubled  eyes. 

"It's  a  little  green  terrace,  a  little  sacred  terrace ;  do 
you  not  see  what  is  on  it?"  she  asked  of  Monk. 

"There  is  nothing  in  it,  Mary,  but  maybe  a  hare." 

"O   look  again,"   she  cried  out  quickly,   TVIichael, 


MARCHING  TO  ZION  25 

there  are  three  golden  crosses  there,  the  crosses  of  Cal- 
vary, only  they  are  empty  now !" 

"There  are  no  crosses  there?"  I  said  to  Monk. 

"There  are  no  crosses  there,"  he  said. 

I  turned  to  the  girl ;  she  took  me  in  her  arms  and  1 
shall  feel  her  cold  cold  lips  till  the  fall  of  doom. 

"Michael,  dear,  it  has  been  so  beautiful.  .  .  ." 

She  seemed  to  be  making  a  little  farewell  and  grow- 
ing vague  like  a  ghost  would  be. 

"O  lovely  lovely  jewel  of  the  world,  my  heart  is 
losing  you !  .  .  .  Monk !  Monk !"  I  screamed,  but  he 
could  not  help  us.  She  was  gone  in  a  twink,  and  left 
me  and  Monk  very  lonely  in  the  world. 


DUSKY  RUTH 


DUSKY  RUTH 

AT  the  close  of  an  April  day,  chilly  and  wet, 
the  traveller  came  to  a  country  town.  In  the 
Cotswolds,  though  the  towns  are  small  and 
sweet  and  the  inns  snug,  the  general  habit  of  the  land 
is  bleak  and  bare.  He  had  newly  come  upon  upland 
roads  so  void  of  human  affairs,  so  lonely,  that  they 
might  have  been  made  for  some  forgotten  uses  by  de- 
parted men,  and  left  to  the  unwitting  passage  of  such 
strangers  as  himself.  Even  the  unending  walls,  built 
of  old  rough  laminated  rock,  that  detailed  the  far- 
spreading  fields,  had  grown  very  old  again  in  their 
courses;  there  were  dabs  of  darkness,  buttons  of  moss, 
and  fossils  on  every  stone.  He  had  passed  a  few 
neighbourhoods,  sometimes  at  the  crook  of  a  stream,  or 
at  the  cross  of  debouching  roads,  where  old  habitations, 
their  gangrenated  thatch  riddled  with  bird  holes,  had 
not  been  so  much  erected  as  just  spattered  about  the 
places.  Beyond  these  signs  an  odd  lark  or  blackbird, 
the  ruckle  of  partridges,  or  the  nifty  gallop  of  a  hare, 
had  been  the  only  mitigation  of  the  living  loneliness 
that  was  almost  as  profound  by  day  as  by  night.  But 
the  traveller  had  a  care  for  such  times  and  places. 
There  are  men  who  love  to  gaze  with  the  mind  at 

89 


30  DUSKY  RUTH 

things  that  can  never  be  seen,  feel  at  least  the  throb  of  a 
beauty  that  will  never  be  known,  and  hear  over  im- 
mense bleak  reaches  the  echo  of  that  which  is  not 
celestial  music,  but  only  their  own  hearts'  vain  cries; 
and  though  his  garments  clung  to  him  like  clay  it  was 
with  deliberate  questing  step  that  the  traveller  trod  the 
single  street  of  the  town,  and  at  last  entered  the  inn, 
shuffling  his  shoes  in  the  doorway  for  a  moment  and 
striking  the  raindrops  from  his  hat.  Then  he  turned 
into  a  small  smoking-room.  Leather-lined  benches, 
much  worn,  were  fixed  to  the  wall  under  the  window 
and  in  other  odd  corners  and  nooks  behind  mahogany 
tables.  One  wall  was  furnished  with  all  the  congenial 
gear  of  a  bar,  but  without  any  intervening  counter. 
Opposite  a  bright  fire  was  burning,  and  a  neatly-dressed 
young  woman  sat  before  it  in  a  Windsor  chair,  star- 
ing at  the  flames.  There  was  no  other  inmate  of  the 
room,  and  as  he  entered  the  girl  rose  up  and  greeted 
him.  He  found  that  he  could  be  accommodated  for 
the  night,  and  in  a  few  moments  his  hat  and  scarf  were 
removed  and  placed  inside  the  fender,  his  wet  over- 
coat was  taken  to  the  kitchen,  the  landlord,  an  old 
fellow,  was  lending  him  a  roomy  pair  of  slippers,  and 
a  maid  was  setting  supper  in  an  adjoining  room. 

He  sat  while  this  was  doing  and  talked  to  the  bar- 
maid. She  had  a  beautiful,  but  rather  mournful,  face 
as  it  was  lit  by  the  firelight,  and  when  her  glance  was 
turned  away  from  it  her  eyes  had  a  piercing  brightness. 
Friendly  and  well-spoken  as  she  was,  the  melancholy 
in  her  aspect  was  noticeable — perhaps  it  was  the  dim 


DUSKY  RUTH  3 1 

room,  or  the  wet  day,  or  the  long  hours  ministering  a 
muUitudc  of  cocktails  to  thirsty  gallantry. 

When  he  went  to  his  supper  he  found  cheering  food 
and  drink,  with  pleasant  garniture  of  silver  and  ma- 
hogany. There  were  no  other  visitors,  he  was  to  be 
alone;  blinds  were  drawn,  lamj)s  lit,  and  the  fire  at 
his  back  was  comforting.  So  he  sat  long  about  his 
meal  until  a  white- faced  maid  came  to  clear  the  table, 
discoursing  to  him  of  country  things  as  she  busied 
about  the  room.  It  was  a  long  narrow  room,  with  a 
sideboard  and  the  door  at  one  end  and  the  fireplace  at 
the  other.  A  bookshelf,  almost  devoid  of  books,  con- 
tained a  number  of  plates ;  the  long  wall  that  faced  the 
windows  was  almost  destitute  of  pictures,  but  there 
were  hung  upon  it,  for  some  inscrutable  but  doubtless 
suf^cient  reason,  many  dish-covers,  solidly  shaped,  of 
the  kind  held  in  such  mysterious  regard  and  known 
as  "willow  pattern" ;  one  was  even  hung  upon  the  face 
of  a  map.  Two  musty  prints  were  mixed  with  them, 
presentments  of  horses  having  a  stilted,  extravagant 
physique  and  bestridden  by  images  of  inhuman  and 
incommunical)le  dignity,  clothed  in  whiskers,  coloured 
jackets,  and  tight  white  breeches. 

He  took  down  the  books  from  the  shelf,  but  his 
interest  was  speedily  exhausted,  and  the  almanacs,  the 
county  directory,  and  various  guide-books  were  ex- 
changed for  the  Cotszt'old  Chronicle.  With  this,  hav- 
ing drawn  the  deep  chair  to  the  hearth,  he  whilcd 
away  the  time.  The  newspaper  amused  him  with 
its    advertisements    of    stock    shows,    farm    auctions. 


32  DUSKY  RUTH 

travelling  quacks  and  conjurers,  and  there  was  a 
lengthy  account  of  the  execution  of  a  local  felon,  one 
Timothy  Bridger,  who  had  murdered  an  infant  in  some 
shameful  circumstances.  This  dazzling  crescendo 
proved  rather  trying  to  the  traveller;  he  threw  down 
the  paper. 

The  town  was  all  quiet  as  the  hills,  and  he  could 
hear  no  sounds  in  the  house.  He  got  up  and  went 
across  the  hall  to  the  smoke-room.  The  door  was  shut, 
but  there  was  light  within,  and  he  entered.  The  girl 
sat  there  much  as  he  had  seen  her  on  his  arrival,  still 
alone,  with  feet  on  fender.  He  shut  the  door  behind 
him,  sat  down,  and  crossing  his  legs  pufifed  at  his  pipe, 
admired  the  snug  little  room  and  the  pretty  figure  of 
the  girl,  which  he  could  do  without  embarrassment  as 
her  meditative  head,  slightly  bowed,  was  turned  away 
from  him.  He  could  see  something  of  her,  too,  in  the 
mirror  at  the  bar,  which  repeated  also  the  agreeable 
contours  of  bottles  of  coloured  wines  and  rich 
liqueurs — so  entrancing  in  form  and  aspect  that  they 
seemed  destined  to  charming  histories,  even  in  disuse — 
and  those  of  familiar  outline  containing  mere  spirits 
or  small  beer,  for  which  are  reserved  the  harsher  des- 
tinies of  base  oils,  horse  medicines,  disinfectants,  and 
cold  tea.  There  were  coloured  glasses  for  bitter  wines, 
white  glasses  for  sweet,  a  tiny  leaden  sink  beneath 
them,  and  the  four  black  handles  of  the  beer  engine. 

The  girl  wore  a  light  blouse  of  silk,  a  short  skirt  of 
black  velvet,  and  a  pair  of  very  thin  silk  stockings 
that  showed  the  flesh  of  instep  and  shin  so  plainly  that 
he  could  see  they  were  reddened  by  the  warmth  of  the 


DUSKY  RUTH  33 

fire.  She  had  on  a  pair  of  dainty  cloth  shoes  with 
high  heels,  but  what  was  wonderful  about  her  was  the 
heap  of  rich  black  hair  piled  at  the  back  of  her  head  and 
shadowing  the  dusky  neck.  He  sat  puffing  his  pipe 
and  letting  the  loud  tick  of  the  clock  fill  the  quiet  room. 
She  did  not  stir  and  he  could  move  no  muscle. 
It  was  as  if  he  had  been  willed  to  come  there  and  wait 
silently.  That,  he  felt  now,  had  been  his  desire  all  the 
evening;  and  here,  in  her  presence,  he  was  more 
strangely  stirred  than  by  any  event  he  could  remember. 

In  youth  he  had  viewed  women  as  futile  pitiable 
things  that  grew  long  hair,  wore  stays  and  garters,  and 
prayed  incomprehensible  prayers.  Viewing  them  in 
the  stalls  of  the  theatre  from  his  vantage-point  in  the 
gallery,  he  always  disliked  the  articulation  of  their 
naked  shoulders.  But  still,  there  was  a  god  in  the 
sky,  a  god  with  flowing  hair  and  exquisite  eyes,  whose 
one  stride  with  an  ardour  grandly  rendered  took  him 
across  the  whole  round  hemisphere  to  which  his  buoy- 
ant limbs  were  bound  like  spokes  to  the  eternal  rim 
and  axle,  his  bright  hair  burning  in  the  pity  of  the  sun- 
sets and  tossing  in  the  anger  of  the  dawns. 

Master  traveller  had  indeed  come  into  this  room  to 
be  with  this  woman :  she  as  surely  desired  him,  and 
for  all  its  accidental  occasion  it  was  as  if  he,  walking 
the  ways  of  the  world,  had  suddenly  come  upon  .  .  . 
what  so  imaginable  with  all  permitted  reverence  as, 
well,  just  a  shrine;  and  he,  admirably  humble,  bowed 
the  instant  head. 

Were  there  no  other  people  within?  The  clock  in- 
dicated a  few  minutes  to  nine.     He  sat  on,  still  as  stone, 


34  DUSKY  RUTH 

and  the  woman  might  have  been  of  wax  for  all  the 
movement  or  sound  she  made.  There  was  allurement 
in  the  air  between  them;  he  had  forborne  his  smoking, 
the  pipe  grew  cold  between  his  teeth.  He  waited  for  a 
look  from  her,  a  movement  to  break  the  trance  ot 
silence.  No  footfall  in  street  or  house,  no  voice  in 
the  inn  but  the  clock  beating  away  as  if  pronouncing  a 
doom.  Suddenly  it  rasped  out  nine  large  notes,  a  bell 
in  the  town  repeated  them  dolefully,  and  a  cuckoo  no 
further  than  the  kitchen  mocked  them  with  three  times 
three.  After  that  came  the  weak  steps  of  the  old  land- 
lord along  the  hall,  the  slam  of  doors,  the  clatter  of 
lock  and  bolt,  and  then  the  silence  returning  unendur- 
ably  upon  them. 

He  arose  and  stood  behind  her ;  he  touched  the  black 
hair.  She  made  no  movement  or  sign.  He  pulled  out 
two  or  three  combs,  and  dropping  them  into  her  lap  let 
the  whole  mass  tumble  about  his  hands.  It  had  a 
curious  harsh  touch  in  the  unravelling,  but  was  so  full 
and  shining;  black  as  a  rook's  wings  it  was.  He  slid 
his  palms  through  it.  His  fingers  searched  it  and 
fought  with  its  fine  strangeness;  into  his  mind  there 
travelled  a  serious  thought,  stilling  his  wayward  fancy 
— this  was  no  wayward  fancy,  but  a  rite  accomplish- 
ing itself  !  (Run,  run,  silly  man,  y'are  lost)  But  hav- 
ing got  so  far  he  burnt  his  boats,  leaned  over,  and  drew 
her  face  back  to  him.  And  at  that,  seizing  his  wrists, 
she  gave  him  back  ardour  for  ardour,  pressing  his  hands 
to  her  bosom,  while  the  kiss  was  sealed  and  sealed 
again.  Then  she  sprang  up  and  picking  his  hat  and 
scarf  from  the  fender  said : 


DUSKY  RUTH  35 

"I  have  been  drying  them  for  you,  but  the  hat  has 
shrunk  a  bit,  I'm  sure — I  tried  it  on." 

He  took  tliem  from  her  and  put  them  behind  him; 
he  leaned  hghtly  back  upon  the  table,  holding  it  with 
both  his  hands  behind  him ;  he  could  not  speak. 

"Aren't  you  going  to  thank  me  for  drying  them?" 
she  asked,  picking  her  combs  from  the  rug  and  repin- 
ning  her  hair. 

"I  wonder  why  we  did  that?"  he  asked,  shamedly. 

"It  is  what  I'm  thinking  too,"  she  said. 

"You  were  so  beautiful  about  .  .  .  about  it,  you 
know." 

She  made  no  rejoinder,  but  continued  to  bind  her 
hair,  looking  brightly  at  him  under  her  brows.  When 
she  had  finished  she  went  close  to  him. 

"Will  that  do?" 

"I'll  take  it  down  again." 

"No,  no,  the  old  man  or  the  old  woman  will  be 
coming  in." 

"What  of  that?"  he  said,  taking  her  into  his  arms, 
"tell  me  your  name." 

She  shook  her  head,  but  she  returned  his  kisses  and 
stroked  his  hair  and  shoulders  with  beautifully  melt- 
ing gestures. 

"What  is  your  name,  I  want  to  call  you  by  your 
name?"  he  said;  "I  can't  keep  calling  you  Lovely 
Woman,  Lovely  Woman." 

Again  she  shook  her  head  and  was  dumli. 

"I'll  call  you  Ruth  then,  Dusky  Ruth,  Ruth  of  the 
black,  beautiful  hair." 

"That  is  a  nice-sounding  name — I  knew  a  deaf  and 


36  DUSKY  RUTH 

dumb  girl  named  Ruth;  she  went  to  Nottingham  and 
married  an  organ-grinder — but  I  should  like  it  for  my 
name." 

"Then  I  give  it  to  you." 

"Mine  is  so  ugly." 

"What  is  it?" 

Again  the  shaken  head  and  the  burning  caress. 

"Then  you  shall  be  Ruth ;  will  you  keep  that  name  ?" 

"Yes,  if  you  give  me  the  name  I  will  keep  it  for  you." 

Time  had  indeed  taken  them  by  the  forelock,  and 
they  looked  upon  a  ruddled  world. 

"I  stake  my  one  talent,"  he  said  jestingly,  "and  be- 
hold it  returns  me  fortyfold;  I  feel  like  the  boy  who 
catches  three  mice  with  one  piece  of  cheese." 

At  ten  o'clock  the  girl  said: 

"I  must  go  and  see  how  they  are  getting  on,"  and  she 
went  to  the  door. 

"Are  we  keeping  them  up?" 

She  nodded. 

"Are  you  tired?" 

"No,  I  am  not  tired." 

She  looked  at  him  doubtfully. 

"We  ought  not  to  stay  in  here;  go  into  the  coffee- 
room  and  I'll  come  there  in  a  few  minutes." 

"Right,"  he  whispered  gaily,  "we'll  sit  up  all  night." 

She  stood  at  the  door  for  him  to  pass  out,  and  he 
crossed  the  hall  to  the  other  room.  It  was  in  darkness 
except  for  the  flash  of  the  fire.  Standing  at  the  hearth 
he  lit  a  match  for  the  lamp,  but  paused  at  the  globe; 
then  he  extinguished  the  match. 

"No,  it's  better  to  sit  in  the  firelight." 


DUSKY  RUTH  37 

He  heard  voices  at  the  other  end  of  the  house  that 
seemed  to  have  a  chiding  note  in  them. 

"Lord,"  he  thought,  "she  is  getting  into  a  row  ?" 

Then  her  steps  came  echoing  over  the  stone  floors  of 
the  hall ;  she  opened  the  door  and  stood  there  with  a 
lighted  candle  in  her  hand ;  he  stood  at  the  other  end  of 
the  room,  smiling. 

"Good  night,"  she  said. 

"Oh  no,  no !  come  along,"  he  protested,  but  not  mov- 
ing from  the  hearth. 

"Got  to  go  to  bed,"  she  answered. 

"Are  they  angry  with  you?" 

"No." 

"Well,  then,  come  over  here  and  sit  down." 

"Got  to  go  to  bed,"  she  said  again,  but  she  had  mean- 
while put  her  candlestick  upon  the  little  sideboard  and 
was  trimming  the  wick  with  a  burnt  match. 

"Oh,  come  along,  just  half  an  hour,"  he  protested. 
She  did  not  answer  but  went  on  prodding  the  wick  of 
the  candle. 

"Ten  minutes,  then,"  he  said,  still  not  going  towards 
her. 

"Five  minutes,"  he  begged. 

She  shook  her  head,  and  picking  up  the  candlestick 
turned  to  the  door.  He  did  not  move,  he  just  called 
her  name :  "Ruth !" 

She  came  back  then,  put  down  the  candlestick  and 
tiptoed  across  the  room  until  he  met  her.  The  bliss  of 
the  embrace  was  so  poignant  that  he  was  almost  glad 
when  she  stood  up  again  and  said  with  affected  steadi- 
ness, though  he  heard  the  tremor  in  her  voice : 


38  DUSKY  RUTH 

"I  must  get  you  your  candle." 

She  brought  one  from  the  hall,  set  it  on  the  table  in 
front  of  him,  and  struck  the  match. 

"What  is  my  number?"  he  asked. 

"Number  six  room,"  she  answered,  prodding  the 
wick  vaguely  with  her  match,  while  a  slip  of  white  wax 
dropped  over  the  shoulder  of  the  new  candle.  "Num- 
ber six  .  .  ,  next  to  mine." 

The  match  burnt  out;  she  said  abruptly  "Good- 
night," took  up  her  own  candle  and  left  him  there. 

In  a  few  moments  he  ascended  the  stairs  and  went 
into  his  room.  He  fastened  the  door,  removed  his 
coat,  collar,  and  slippers,  but  the  rack  of  passion  had 
seized  him  and  he  moved  about  with  no  inclination  to 
sleep.  He  sat  down,  but  there  was  no  medium  of  dis- 
traction. He  tried  to  read  the  newspaper  which  he  had 
carried  up  with  him,  and  without  realizing  a  single 
phrase  he  forced  himself  to  read  again  the  whole  ac- 
count of  the  execution  of  the  miscreant  Bridger.  When 
he  had  finished  this  he  carefully  folded  the  paper  and 
stood  up,  listening.  He  went  to  the  parting  wall  and 
tapped  thereon  with  his  finger  tips.  He  waited  half  a 
minute,  one  minute,  two  minutes ;  there  was  no  answer- 
ing sign.  He  tapped  again,  more  loudly,  with  his 
knuckles,  but  there  was  no  response,  and  he  tapped 
many  times.  He  opened  his  door  as  noiselessly  as 
possible;  along  the  dark  passage  there  were  slips  of 
light  under  the  other  doors,  the  one  next  his  own,  and 
the  one  beyond  that.  He  stood  in  the  corridor  listen- 
ing to  the  rumble  of  old  voices  in  the  farther  room, 
the  old  man  and  his  wife  going  to  their  rest.     Holding 


DUSKY  RUTH  39 

his  breath  fearfully,  he  stepped  to  her  door  and  tapped 
gently  upon  it.  There  was  no  answer,  but  he  could 
somehow  divine  her  awareness  of  him;  he  tapped 
again;  she  moved  to  the  door  and  whispered  "No,  no, 
go  away."     He  turned  the  handle,  the  door  was  locked. 

"Let  me  in,"  he  pleaded.  He  knew  she  was  standing 
there  an  inch  or  two  beyond  him, 

"Hush,"  she  called  softly.  "Go  away,  the  old  woman 
has  ears  like  a  fox." 

He  stood  silent  for  a  moment. 

"Unlock  it,"  he  urged ;  but  he  got  no  further  reply, 
and  feeling  foolish  and  baffled  he  moved  back  to  his 
own  room,  cast  his  clothes  from  him,  doused  the 
candle  and  crept  into  the  bed  with  soul  as  wild  as  a 
storm-swept  forest,  his  heart  beating  a  vagrant  sum- 
mons. The  room  filled  with  strange  heat,  there  was 
no  composure  for  mind  or  limb,  nothing  but  flaming 
visions  and  furious  embraces. 

"Morality  .  .  .  what  is  it  but  agreement  with  your 
own  soul?" 

So  he  lay  for  two  hours — the  clocks  chimed  twelve 
— listening  with  foolish  persistency  for  her  step  along 
the  corridor,  fancying  every  light  sound — and  the  night 
was  full  of  them — was  her  hand  upon  the  door. 

Suddenly, — and  then  it  seemed  as  if  his  very  heart 
would  abash  the  house  with  its  thunder — he  could  hear 
distinctly  someone  knocking  on  the  wall.  He  got 
quickly  from  his  bed  and  stood  at  the  door,  listening. 
Again  the  knocking  was  heard,  and  having  half -clothed 
himself  he  crept  into  the  passage,  which  was  now  in 
utter  darkness,  trailing  his  hand  along  the  wall  until 


40  DUSKY  RUTH 

he  felt  her  door;  it  was  standing  open.  He  entered 
her  room  and  closed  the  door  behind  him.  There  was 
not  the  faintest  gleam  of  light,  he  could  see  nothing. 
He  whispered  "Ruth!"  and  she  was  standing  there. 
She  touched  him,  but  not  speaking.  He  put  out  his 
hands,  and  they  met  round  her  neck;  her  hair  was 
flowing  in  its  great  wave  about  her ;  he  put  his  lips  to 
her  face  and  found  that  her  eyes  were  streaming  with 
tears,  salt  and  strange  and  disturbing.  In  the  close 
darkness  he  put  his  arms  about  her  with  no  thought 
but  to  comfort  her;  one  hand  had  plunged  through 
the  long  harsh  tresses  and  the  other  across  her  hips  be- 
fore he  realized  that  she  was  ungowned;  then  he  was 
aware  of  the  softness  of  her  breasts  and  the  cold  naked 
sleekness  of  her  shoulders.  But  she  was  crying  there, 
crying  silently  with  great  tears,  her  strange  sorrow 
stifling  his  desire. 

"Ruth,  Ruth,  my  beautiful  dear!"  he  murmured 
soothingly.  He  felt  for  the  bed  with  one  hand,  and 
turning  back  the  quilt  and  sheets  he  lifted  her  in  as 
easily  as  a  mother  does  her  child,  replaced  the  bedding, 
and,  in  his  clothes,  he  lay  stretched  beside  her  comfort- 
ing her.  They  lay  so,  innocent  as  children,  for  an 
hour,  when  she  seemed  to  have  gone  to  sleep.  He  rose 
then  and  went  silently  to  his  room,  full  of  weariness. 

In  the  morning  he  breakfasted  without  seeing  her, 
but  as  he  had  business  in  the  world  that  gave  him  Just 
an  hour  longer  at  the  Inn  before  he  left  it  for  good 
and  all,  he  went  into  the  smoke-room  and  found  her. 
She  greeted  him  with  curious  gaze,  but  merrily  enough, 
for  there  were  other  men  there  now,  farmers,  a  butcher, 


DUSKY  RUTH  4I 

a  registrar,  an  old,  old  man.  The  hour  passed,  but 
not  these  men,  and  at  length  he  donned  his  coat, 
took  up  his  stick,  and  said  good-bye.  Her  shining 
glances  followed  liim  to  the  door,  and  from  the  window 
as  far  as  they  could  view  him. 


WEEP  NOT  MY  WANTON 


WEEP  NOT  MY  WANTON 

AIR  and  light  on  Sack  Down  at  summer  sun- 
set were  soft  as  ointment  and  sweet  as  milk ; 
at  least,  that  is  the  notion  the  down  might  give 
to  a  mind  that  hloomed  within  its  calm  horizons,  some 
happy  victim  of  romance  it  might  be.  watching  the 
silken  barley  moving  in  its  lower  lields  with  the  slow 
movement  of  summer  sea,  reaching  no  harbour,  having 
no  end.  The  toilers  had  mostly  given  over;  their 
ploughs  and  harrows  were  left  to  the  abandoned  fields; 
they  had  taken  their  wages  and  gone,  or  were  going, 
home;  but  at  the  crown  of  the  hill  a  black  barn  stood 
by  the  roadside,  and  in  its  yard,  amid  sounds  of 
anguish,  a  score  of  young  boar  pigs  were  being  gelded 
by  two  brown  lads  and  a  gipsy  fellow.  Not  half  a 
mile  of  distance  here  could  enclose  you  the  compass  of 
their  cries.  If  a  man  desired  peace  he  would  step 
fast  down  the  hill  towards  Arwall  with  finger  in  ear 
until  he  came  to  quiet  at  a  bank  overlooking  slopes  of 
barley,  and  could  perceive  the  fogs  of  June  being  born 
in  the  standing  grass  beyond. 

Four  figures,  a  labourer  and  his  family,  travelled 
slowly  up  the  road  proceeding  across  the  hill,  a  sound 
mingling  dully  witii  their  steps — the  voice  of  the  man. 

45 


46  WEEP  NOT  MY  WANTON 

You  could  not  tell  if  it  were  noise  of  voice  or  of  foot- 
steps that  first  came  into  your  ear,  but  it  could  be  de- 
fined on  their  advance  as  the  voice  of  a  man  upbraid- 
ing his  little  son. 

"You're  a  naughty,  naughty — you're  a  vurry,  vurry 
naughty  boy !     Oi  can't  think  what's  comen  tyeh !" 

The  father  towered  above  the  tiny  figure  shuffling 
under  his  elbow,  and  kept  his  eyes  stupidly  fixed  up- 
on him.  He  saw  a  thin  boy,  a  spare  boy,  a  very 
shrunken  boy  of  seven  or  eight  years,  crying  quietly. 
He  let  no  grief  out  of  his  lips,  but  his  white  face  was 
streaming  with  dirty  tears.  He  wore  a  man's  cap,  an 
unclean  sailor  jacket,  large  knickerbockers  that  made 
a  mockery  of  his  lean  joints,  a  pair  of  women's  button 
boots,  and  he  looked  straight  ahead. 

"The  idear  !  To  go  and  lose  a  sixpence  like  that  then ! 
Where  d'ye  think  yer'll  land  yerself,  ay?  Where'd  I 
be  if  I  kept  on  losing  sixpences,  ay?  A  creature  like 
you,  ay!"  and  lifting  his  heavy  hand  the  man  struck 
the  boy  a  blow  behind  with  shock  enough  to  disturb 
a  heifer.  They  went  on,  the  child  with  sobs  that  you 
could  feel  rather  than  hear.  As  they  passed  the  black 
barn  the  gipsy  bawled  encouragingly:  "S'elp  me, 
father,  that's  a  good  'un,  wallop  his  trousers !" 

But  the  man  ignored  him,  as  he  ignored  the  yell  of 
the  pig  and  the  voice  of  the  lark  rioting  above  them 
all ;  he  continued  his  litany : 

"You're  a  naughty,  naughty  boy,  an'  I  dunno  what's 
comen  tyeh!" 

The  woman,  a  poor  slip  of  a  woman  she  was,  walked 
behind  them  with  a  smaller  child:  she  seemed  to  have 


WEEP   NOT   MY  WANTON  47 

no  desire  to  shield  the  boy  or  to  placate  the  man.  She 
did  not  seem  to  notice  them,  and  led  the  toddlinij;  babe, 
to  whom  she  gabbled,  some  paces  in  the  rear  of  the  man 
of  anger.  He  was  a  great  figure  with  a  bronzed  face; 
his  trousers  were  tied  at  the  k'nee,  his  wicker  bag  was 
slung  over  his  shonkler.  With  his  free  and  massive 
hand  he  held  the  hand  of  the  boy.  He  was  slightly 
drunk,  and  walked  with  his  legs  somewhat  wide,  at  the 
beginning  of  each  stride  lifting  his  heel  higher  than 
was  required,  and  at  the  end  of  it  placing  his  foot 
firmly  but  obliquely  inwards.  There  were  two  bright 
medals  on  the  breast  of  his  waistcoat,  presumably  for 
valour ;  he  was  perhaps  a  man  who  would  stand  upon 
his  rights  and  his  dignities,  such  as  they  were — but  then 
he  was  drunk.  His  language,  oddly  unprofane.  gave 
a  subtle  and  mean  point  to  his  decline  from  the  heroic 
standard.  He  only  ceased  his  complaining  to  gaze 
swayingly  at  the  boy ;  then  he  struck  him.  The  boy, 
crying  quietly,  made  no  effort  to  avoid  or  resist  him. 

"You  understand  me,  you  bad  boy !  As  long  as 
you're  with  me  you  got  to  come  under  collar.  And 
wher'll  you  be  next  I  dunno,  a  bad  creature  like  you, 
ay !  An'  then  to  turn  roun'  an'  answer  mel  /  dunno!  I 
dunno  what's  coinen  tyeh.  Ye  know  ye  lost  that  six- 
pence through  glammering  about.  Wher'  d'ye  lose  it, 
ay  ?     Wher'  d'ye  lose  it,  ay  ?"' 

At  these  questions  he  seized  the  boy  by  the  neck  and 
shook  him  as  a  child  does  a  bottle  of  water.  The  baby 
behind  them  was  taken  with  little  gusts  of  laughter  at 
the  sight,  and  the  woman  cooed  back  playfully  at  her. 

"George,  George !"  yelled  the  woman. 


48  WEEP  NOT  MY  WANTON 

The  man  turned  round. 

"Look  after  Annie !"  she  yelled  again. 

"What's  up?"  he  called. 

Her  only  answer  was  a  giggle  of  laughter  as  she 
disappeared  behind  a  hedge.  The  child  toddled  up  to 
its  father  and  took  his  hand,  while  the  quiet  boy  took 
her  other  hand  with  relief.  She  laughed  up  into  their 
faces,  and  the  man  resumed  his  homily. 

"He's  a  bad,  bad  boy.  He's  a  vurry  naugJity  bad 
boy!" 

By-and-by  the  woman  came  shuffling  after  them; 
the  boy  looked  furtively  around  and  dropped  his 
sister's  hand. 

"Carm  on,  me  beauty!"  cried  the  man,  lifting  the 
girl  to  his  shoulder.  "He's  a  bad  boy ;  you  'ave  a  ride 
on  your  daddy."  They  went  on  alone,  and  the  woman 
joined  the  boy.     He  looked  up  at  her  with  a  sad  face. 

"O,  my  Christ,  Johnny !"  she  said,  putting  her  arms 
round  the  boy,  "what's  'e  bin  doin'  to  yeh?  Yer  face 
is  all  blood !" 

"It's  only  me  nose,  mother.  Here,"  he  whispered, 
"here's  the  tanner." 

They  went  together  down  the  hill  towards  the  inn, 
which  had  already  a  light  in  its  windows.  The 
screams  from  the  barn  had  ceased,  and  a  cart  passed 
them  full  of  young  pigs,  bloody  and  subdued.  The 
hill  began  to  resume  its  old  dominion  of  soft  sounds. 
It  was  nearly  nine  o'clock,  and  one  anxious  farmer 
still  made  hay  although,  on  this  side  of  the  down,  day 
had  declined,  and  with  a  greyness  that  came  not  from 


WEEP  NOT  MY  WANTON  49 

the  sky,  but  crept  up  from  the  world.  From  the  quiet 
hill,  as  the  last  skein  of  cocks  was  carted  to  the  stack, 
you  could  hear  dimly  men's  voices  and  the  rattle  of 
their  gear. 


PIFFINGCAP 


PIFFINGCAP 

PIFFINGCAP  had  the  cup  from  an  old  friend,  a 
queer-minded  man.  He  had  given  it  to  him 
just  before  he  had  gone  out  of  this  continent, 
not  for  the  first  but  for  the  last  time — a  cup  of  lead 
with  an  inscription  upon  it  in  decent  letters  but  strange 
words. 

"Here,  Elmer,"  said  his  old  friend  to  the  barber  of 
Bagwood,  "have  this — there's  the  doom  of  half  a  mil- 
lion beards  in  it!" 

Piffingcap  laughed,  but  without  any  joy,  for  his 
heart  was  heavy  to  lose  his  friend. 

"There  is  in  it  too,"  continued  Grafton,  offering  the 
pot  and  tapping  it  with  his  forefinger,  "a  true  test  of 
\'irtue — a  rare  thing,  as  you  know,  in  these  parts. 
Secondly,  there  is  in  it  a  choice  of  fortunes;  and 
thirdly,  it  may  be,  a  triple  calamity  and — and — and 
very  serious,  you  know,  but  there  you  are."  He  gave 
it  into  the  barber's  hand  with  a  slight  sigh.  While 
his  friend  duly  admired  the  dull  gift  the  traveller 
picked  up  his  walking  stick  and  winked  at  himself  in 
the  mirror. 

And  Elmer  Piffingcap,  the  barber  of  Bagwood,  took 
his  friend's  cup,  set  it  in  a  conspicuous  place  upon  the 

53 


54  PIFFINGCAP 

shelf  of  his  shop,  and  bade  that  friend  good-bye,  a 
little  knot  rolling  into  his  lungs  as  they  shook  their 
two  hands  together. 

"It  is  true  then,"  said  he,  staring  at  the  shining  bald- 
ness of  his  friend  who  stood  with  hat  and  stick  in 
hand — for  as  Piffingcap  dared  not  look  into  his  friend's 
eyes,  the  gleam  of  the  skull  took  his  gaze,  as  a  bright 
thing  will  seize  the  mind  of  a  gnat — "it  is  true,  then, 
I  shall  see  you  no  more  ?" 

"No  more  again,"  said  the  wanderer  affably,  re- 
placing his  hat — disliking  that  pliant  will-less  stare  of 
the  barber's  mournful  eyes.  This  wandering  man  had 
a  heart  full  of  bravery  though  he  could  not  walk  with 
pride,  for  the  corns  and  bunkles  he  suffered  would 
have  crippled  a  creature  of  four  feet,  leave  alone  two. 
But — would  you  believe  it — he  was  going  now  to  walk 
himself  for  all  his  days  round  and  round  the  world. 
O,  he  was  such  a  man  as  could  put  a  deceit  upon  the 
slyest,  with  his  tall  hat  and  his  jokes,  living  as  easy  as 
a  bird  in  the  softness  and  sweetness  of  the  year. 

"And  if  it  rains,  it  rains,"  he  declared  to  Polly,  "and 
I  squat  like  a  hare  in  the  hedge  and  keep  the  blessed 
bones  of  me  dry  and  my  feet  warm — it's  not  three 
weeks  since  it  happened  to  me;  my  neck  as  damp  as 
the  inside  of  an  onion,  and  my  curly  locks  caught  in 
blackberry  bushes — stint  your  laughing,  Polly! — the 
end  of  my  nose  as  cold  as  a  piece  of  dead  pork,  and 
the  place  very  inconvenient  with  its  sharp  thorns  and 
nettles — and  no  dockleaf  left  in  the  whole  parish. 
But  there  was  young  barley  wagging  in  the  field,  and 
clover  to  be  smelling,  and  rooks  to  be  watching,  and 


PIFFINGCAP  55 

doves,  and  the  rain  heaving  its  long  sigh  in  the  grey- 
ness — I  declare  to  my  God  it  was  a  fine  handsome 
day  I  had  that  day,  Polly !" 

In  the  winter  he  would  be  sleeping  in  decent  nooks, 
eating  his  food  in  quiet  inns,  drying  his  coat  at  the 
forge;  and  so  he  goes  now  into  the  corners  of  the 
world — the  little  husky  fat  man,  with  large  spectacles 
and  fox-coloured  beard  and  tough  boots  that  had  slits 
and  gouts  in  them — gone  seeking  the  feathers  out  of 
Priam's  peacock.  And  let  him  go;  we  take  no  more 
concern  of  him  or  his  shining  skull  or  his  tra-la-la  in 
the  highways. 

The  barber,  who  had  a  romantic  drift  of  mind,  went 
into  his  saloon,  and  taking  up  the  two  cracked  china 
lather  mugs  he  flung  them  from  the  open  window  into 
his  back  garden,  putting  the  fear  of  some  evil  into 
the  mind  of  his  drowsy  cat,  and  a  great  anticipation 
in  the  brains  of  his  two  dusty  hens,  who  were  lurking 
there  for  anything  that  could  be  devoured.  Mr. 
Fiffingcaj)  placed  the  pot  made  of  lead  upon  his  con- 
venient shelf,  laid  therein  his  brush,  lit  the  small  gas 
stove  under  the  copper  urn,  and  when  Polly,  the  child 
from  the  dairy,  arrived  with  her  small  can  for  the 
barber's  large  jug  she  found  him  engaged  in  shaving 
the  chin  of  Timmy  James  the  butcher,  what  time  Mr. 
James  was  engaged  in  a  somewhat  stilted  conversation 
with  Gregory  Barnes  about  the  carnal  women  of  Bag- 
wood. 

Polly  was  a  little  lean  girl,  eight  or  nine  years  old, 
with  a  face  that  was  soft  and  rosy  and  fresh  as  the  bud 
of  gum  on  the  black  branches  of  the  orchard.     She 


56  PIFFINGCAP 

wore  a  pretty  dimity  frock  and  had  gay  flowers  in  her 
hat.  This  was  her  last  house  of  call,  and,  sitting  down 
to  watch  Mr.  Piffingcap,  the  town's  one  barber,  shaving 
friends  and  enemies  alike,  she  would  be  the  butt  of 
their  agreeable  chaff  because  of  her  pleasant  country 
jargon — as  rich  as  nutmeg  in  a  homely  cake — or  her 
yellow  scattered  hair,  or  her  sweet  eyes  that  were  soft 
as  remembered  twilight. 

"Your  razor  is  roaring,  Mr.  Piffingcap !" — peeping 
round  the  chair  at  him.  "Oh,  it's  that  Mr.  James!" 
she  would  say  in  pretended  surprise.  Mr.  James  had 
a  gruff  beard,  and  the  act  of  removing  it  occasioned 
a  noise  resembling  that  of  her  mother  scraping  the 
new  potatoes. 

"What  have  you  got  this  pot  for?"  she  chattered; 
"I  don't  like  it,  it's  ugly." 

"Don't  say  that  now,"  said  Mr.  Piffingcap,  pausing 
with  his  hand  on  the  butcher's  throttle,  "it  was  Mr. 
Grafton's  parting  gift  to  me;  I  shall  never  see  him 
again,  nor  will  you  neither ;  he's  gone  round  the  world 
for  ever  more  this  time !" 

"Oh!"  gurgled  the  child  in  a  manner  that  hung  be- 
tween pain  and  delight,  "has  he  gone  to  Rinjigoffer 
land?" 

"Gone  where?"  roared  Timothy  James,  lifting  his 
large  red  neck  from  the  rest. 

"He's  told  me  all  about  it,"  said  the  child,  ignoring 
him. 

"Well,  he's  not  gone  there,"  interrupted  the  barber. 

And  the  child  continued,  "It's  where  the  doves  and 


PIFFINGCAP  57 

the  partridges  are  so  fat  tliat  they  break  down  the 
branches  of  the  trees  where  they  roost.  .  .  ." 

"Gain  with  yer !"  said  Mr.  James. 

".  .  .  and  the  hares  are  as  big  as  foxes.  .  ." 

"God  a  mercy!"  said  Mr.  James. 

".  .  .  yes,  and  a  fox  was  biij  and  brown  and  white 
like  a  skewbald  donkey — he !  he !  he !  And  oo  yes," 
continued  Polly,  shrilling  with  excitement,  "there  was 
a  king  badger  as  would  stop  your  eyes  from  winking 
if  you  met  him  walking  in  the  dawn !" 

"Lord,  what  should  the  man  be  doing  telling  you 
them  lies,"  ejaculated  Timothy,  now  wiping  his  chin 
on  the  napkin.     "Did  he  give  you  that  cup,  Piff?" 

"Yes,"  replied  the  barber,  "and  if  what  he  says  is 
true  there's  a  power  o'  miracle  in  it." 

The  butcher  surveyed  it  cautiously  and  read  the  in- 
scription : 

NE  SAMBRA   DIVORNAK 

"That's  a  bit  o'  Roosian,  I  should  say,"  he  remarked 
as  he  and  Gregory  left  the  saloon. 

Polly  picked  up  her  empty  can  and  looked  at  Mr.  P. 

"Won't  he  come  back  no  more?" 

"No,  Polly,  my  pigeon,  he  won't  come  back." 

"Didn't  he  like  us?"  asked  the  child. 

The  barber  stood  dumb  before  her  bright  searching 
eyes. 

"He  was  better  than  my  father,"  said  the  child,  "or 
me  uncle,  or  the  schoolmaster." 

"He's  the  goodest  man  alive,  Polly,"  said  Mr.  P. 


58  PIFFINGCAP 

"Didn't  he  like  us  ?"  again  she  asked ;  and  as  Mr.  P. 
could  only  look  vaguely  about  the  room  she  went  out 
and  closed  the  latch  of  the  door  very  softly  behind  her. 

In  the  succeeding  days  the  barber  lathered  and  cut 
or  sat  smoking  meditatively  in  his  saloon;  the  doom 
began  to  work  its  will,  and  business,  which  for  a  quar- 
ter of  a  century  had  flourished  like  a  plant,  as  indeed 
it  was,  of  constant  and  assured  growth,  suddenly  de- 
clined. On  weekdays  the  barber  cleaned  up  the  chins 
of  his  fellow  townsmen  alone,  but  on  Sunday  morn- 
ings he  would  seek  the  aid  of  a  neighbour,  a  youngster 
whom  he  called  Charleyboy,  when  four  men  would 
be  seated  at  one  time  upon  his  shaving-chairs,  towel 
upon  breast  and  neck  bared  for  the  sacrifice,  while 
Charleyboy  dabbed  and  pounded  their  crops  into 
foam.  Mr.  Piffingcap  would  follow  him,  plying  his 
weapon  like  the  genius  he  was,  while  Charleyboy  again 
in  turn  followed  him,  drying  with  linen,  cooling  with 
rhum,  or  soothing  with  splendid  unguent.  "Next  gent, 
please !"  he  would  cry  out,  and  the  last  shorn  man 
would  rise  and  turn  away,  dabbing  his  right  hand  into 
the  depths  of  his  breeches  pocket  and  elevating  that 
with  his  left  before  producing  the  customary  tribute. 

But  the  genius  of  Piffingcap  and  the  neat  hand  of 
Charley  languished  in  distress.  There  was  no  gradual 
cessation,  the  thing  completely  stopped,  and  Piffingcap 
did  not  realize  until  too  late,  until,  indeed,  the  truth 
of  it  was  current  in  the  little  town  everywhere  but  in 
his  own  shop,  that  the  beards  once  shaven  by  him  oui 
of  Grafton's  pot  grew  no  more  in  Bagwood ;  and  there 
came  the  space  of  a  week  or  so  when  not  a  soul  entered 


PIFFINGCAP  59 

the  saloon  but  two  schoolboys  for  the  cutting  of  hair, 
and  a  little  housemaid  for  a  fringe  net. 

Then  he  knew,  and  one  day,  having  sat  in  the  place 
the  vvliole  morning  like  a  beleaguered  rat,  with  ruin 
and  damnation  a  hands-breath  only  from  him,  he 
rusiied  from  his  shop  across  to  the  hardware  mer- 
chant's and  bought  two  white  china  mugs,  delicately 
lined  with  gold  and  embossed  with  vague  lumps,  and 
took  them  back  to  the  saloon. 

At  dinner  time  he  put  the  cup  of  lead  into  his  coat 
pocket  and  walked  down  the  street  in  an  anxious  kind 
of  way  until  he  came  to  the  bridge  at  the  end  of  the 
town.  It  was  an  angular  stone  bridge,  crossing  a 
deep  and  leisurely  flowing  river,  along  whose  parapet 
boys  had  dared  a  million  times,  wearing  smooth,  with 
their  adventuring  feet,  its  soft  yellow  stone.  He 
stared  at  the  water  and  saw  the  shining  flank  of  a  tench 
as  it  turned  over.  All  beyond  the  bridge  were  meads 
thick  with  ripe  unmown  grass  and  sweet  with  scabious 
bloom.  But  the  barber's  mind  was  harsh  with  the 
rancour  of  noon  heats  and  the  misfortunes  of  life. 
He  stood  with  one  hand  resting  upon  the  hot  stone  and 
one  upon  the  heavy  evil  thing  in  his  pocket.  The 
bridge  was  deserted  at  this  hour,  its  little  traffic  hav- 
ing paused  for  the  meal.  He  took,  at  length,  the  cup 
from  his  pocket,  and  whispering  to  himself  "God  for- 
give you,  Grafton,"  he  let  it  fall  from  his  fingers  into 
the  water;  then  he  walked  sharply  home  to  his  three 
daughters  and  told  them  what  he  had  done. 

"You  poor  loon!"  said  Bersa. 

"O  man!  man!"  moaned  Grue. 


6o  PIFFINGCAP 

"You're  the  ruin  of  us  all  1"  cried  Mavie. 

Three  fine  women  were  Grue  and  Mavie  and  Bersa, 
in  spite  of  the  clamour  of  the  outlandish  Piffingcap 
names,  and  their  father  had  respect  for  them  and  ad- 
mired their  handsomeness.  But  they  had  for  their 
father,  all  three  of  them,  the  principal  filial  emotion 
of  compassion,  and  they  showed  that  his  action  had 
been  a  foolish  action,  that  there  were  other  towns  in 
the  world  besides  Bagwood,  and  that  thousands  and 
millions  of  men  would  pay  a  good  price  to  be  quit  of 
a  beard,  and  be  shaved  from  a  pot  that  would  com- 
plete the  destruction  of  all  the  unwanted  hairiness  of 
the  world.     And  they  were  very  angry  with  him. 

"Let  us  go  and  see  to  it  .  .  .  what  is  to  be  done  now 
.  .  .  bring  us  to  the  place,  father !" 

He  took  them  down  to  the  river,  and  when  they 
peered  over  the  side  of  the  bridge  they  could  see  the 
pot  lying  half  sunk  in  some  white  sand  in  more  than  a 
fathom  of  water. 

"Let  us  instruct  the  waterman,"  they  said,  "he  will 
secure  it  for  us." 

In  the  afternoon  Grue  met  the  waterman,  who  was 
a  sly  young  fellow,  and  she  instructed  him,  but  at  tea- 
time  word  was  brought  to  Piffingcap  that  the  young 
waterman  was  fallen  into  the  river  and  drowned. 
Then  there  was  grief  in  his  mind,  for  he  remembered 
the  calamity  which  Grafton  had  foretold,  and  he  was 
for  giving  up  all  notions  of  re-taking  the  cup ;  but  his 
daughter  Bersa  went  in  a  few  days  to  a  man  was  an 
angler  and  instructed  him ;  and  he  took  a  crooked  pole 
and  leaned  over  the  bridge  to  probe  for  the  cup.     In 


PIFFINGCAP  6 1 

the  afternoon  word  was  brought  to  Piffingcap  that  the 
parapet  had  given  way,  and  the  young  angler  in  fall- 
ing through  had  dashed  out  his  brains  on  the  abutment 
of  the  bridge.  And  the  young  gaffer  whom  Mavie 
instructed  was  took  of  a  sunstroke  and  died  on  the 
bank. 

The  barber  was  in  great  grief  at  these  calamities; 
he  had  tremors  of  guilt  in  his  mind,  no  money  in  his 
coffers,  and  the  chins  of  the  Bagwood  men  were  still  as 
smooth  as  children's ;  but  it  came  to  him  one  day  that 
he  need  not  fear  any  more  calamities,  and  that  a  thing 
which  had  so  much  tricks  in  it  should  perhaps  be  cured 
by  trickery. 

"I  will  go,"  he  said,  "to  the  Widow  Buckland  and 
ask  her  to  assist  me." 

The  Widow  Buckland  was  a  wild  strange  woman 
who  lived  on  a  heath  a  few  miles  away  from  Bagwood ; 
so  he  went  over  one  very  hot  day  to  the  Widow  and 
found  her  cottage  in  the  corner  of  the  heath.  There 
was  a  caravan  beside  the  cottage — it  was  a  red  caravan 
with  yellow  wheels.  A  blackbird  hung  in  a  wicker 
cage  at  the  door,  and  on  the  side  of  the  roof  board  was 
painted 

FEATS    &    GALIAS    ATENDED 
AGLAURA    BUCKLAND 

There  was  nobody  in  the  caravan  so  he  knocked  at 
the  cottage  door ;  the  Widow  Buckland  led  him  into  her 
dim  little  parlour. 

"It  'ull  cost  you  half  a  James !"  says  she  when  Mr. 
Piffingcap  had  given  her  his  requirements. 

"Half  a  what?"  cried  he. 


62  PIFFINGCAP 

"You  are  not,"  said  the  gipsy,  "a  man  of  a  mean 
heart,  are  you?"  She  said  it  very  persuasively,  and 
he  felt  he  could  not  annoy  her  for  she  was  a  very 
large  woman  with  sharp  glances. 

"No,"  said  Piffingcap. 

"And  you'll  believe  what  I'm  telling  you,  won't 
you?" 

"Yes,"  said  Piffingcap. 

"It  'ull  maybe  some  time  before  my  words  come 
true,  but  come  true  they  will,  I  can  take  my  oath." 

"Yes,"  again  said  Piffingcap. 

"George!"  she  bawled  to  someone  from  the  door- 
way, "wher'd  yer  put  my  box?" 

There  was  an  indistinct  reply  but  she  bawled  out 
again,     "Well,  fetch  it  off  the  rabbit  hutch." 

"And  a  man  like  you,"  she  continued,  turning  again 
to  the  barber,  "doesn't  think  twice  about  half  a  sover- 
eign, and  me  putting  you  in  the  way  of  what  you  want 
to  know,  I'm  sure," 

And  Piffingcap  mumbled  dubiously  "No,"  producing 
with  difficulty  some  shillings,  some  coppers,  and  a 
postal  order  for  one  and  threepence  which  a  credulous 
customer  had  that  morning  sent  him  for  a  bottle  of 
hair  wash. 

"Let's  look  at  your  'and,"  she  said ;  taking  it  she 
reflected  gravely: 

"You're  a  man  that's  'ad  your  share  o'  trouble,  aint 
you  ?" 

Piffingcap  bowed  meekly. 

"And  you've  'ad  your  'appy  days,  aint  you?" 

A  nod. 


PIFFINGCAP  63 

"Well  listen  to  me ;  you've  got  more  fortune  in  store 
for  you  if  you  know  how  to  pluck  it  .  .  .  you  under- 
stand my  meaning,  don't  you?  .  .  .  than  any  man  in 
the  town  this  blcedun  minute.  Right,  George."  she 
exclaimed,  turning  to  a  very  ugly  little  hunchbacked 
fellow — truly  he  was  a  mere  squint  of  a  man,  there 
was  such  a  little  bit  of  him  for  so  much  uncomeliness. 
The  Widow  Buckland  took  the  box  from  the  hunch- 
back and,  thrusting  him  out  of  the  room,  she  shut 
fast  the  door  and  turned  the  key  in  the  lock.  Then 
she  drew  up  a  bit  of  a  table  to  the  window,  and  tak- 
ing out  of  the  box  a  small  brass  vessel  and  two  bottles 
she  set  them  before  her. 

"Sit  down  there,  young  feller,"  she  said,  and  Piffing- 
cap  sat  down  at  the  end  of  the  table  facing  the  window. 
The  Widow  turned  to  the  window,  which  was  a  small 
square,  the  on! 3'  one  in  the  room,  and  closed  over  it  a 
shutter.  The  room  was  clajipcd  in  darkness  except 
for  a  small  ray  in  the  middle  of  the  shutter,  coming 
througli  a  round  hole  about  as  large  as  a  guinea.  She 
pulled  Mr.  ]^iffingcap's  shoulder  until  the  ray  was  shin- 
ing on  the  middle  of  his  forehead;  she  took  up  the 
brass  vessel,  and  holding  it  in  the  light  of  the  rav  i)ol- 
ished  it  for  some  time  with  her  forefinger.  All  her 
fingers,  even  her  thumbs,  were  covered  with  ricli 
sinister  rings,  but  there  were  no  good  looks  in  those 
fingers  for  the  nails  had  been  munched  almost  away, 
and  dirty  skin  hid  up  the  whites.  The  polished  vessel 
was  then  placed  on  the  table  directly  beneath  the  ray ; 
drops  from  the  two  phials  were  poured  into  it,  a  green 
liquid  and  a  black  liquid ;  mixing  together  they  melted 


64  PIFFINGCAP 

into  a  pillar  of  smoke  which  rose  and  was  seen  only 
as  it  flowed  through  the  beam  of  light,  twisting  and 
veering  and  spinning  in  strange  waves. 

The  Widow  Buckland  said  not  a  word  for  a  time, 
but  contemplated  the  twisting  shapes  as  they  poured 
through  the  ray,  breathing  heavily  all  the  while  or  suf- 
fering a  slight  sigh  to  pass  out  of  her  breast.  But 
shortly  the  smoke  played  the  barber  a  trick  in  his  nose 
and  heaving  up  his  chin  he  rent  the  room  with  a  great 
sneeze.  When  he  recovered  himself  she  was  speak- 
ing certain  words : 

"Fire  and  water  I  see  and  a  white  virgin's  skin. 
The  triple  gouts  of  blood  I  see  and  the  doom  given 
over.     Fire  and  water  I  see  and  a  white  virgin's  skin." 

She  threw  open  the  shutter,  letting  in  the  light; 
smoke  had  ceased  to  rise  but  it  filled  the  parlour  with 
a  sweet  smell. 

"Well  .  .  ."  said  Mr.  Piffingcap  dubiously. 

And  the  Widow  Buckland  spoke  over  to  him  plainly 
and  slowly,  patting  his  shoulder  at  each  syllable, 

"Fire  and  water  and  a  white  virgin's  skin." 

Unlatching  the  door  she  thrust  him  out  of  the  house 
into  the  sunlight.  He  tramped  away  across  the  heath 
meditating  her  words,  and  coming  to  the  end  of  it  he 
sat  down  in  the  shade  of  a  bush  by  the  side  of  the  road, 
for  he  felt  sure  he  was  about  to  capture  the  full  mean- 
ing of  her  words.  But  just  then  he  heard  a  strange 
voice  speaking,  and  speaking  very  vigorously.  He 
looked  up  and  observed  a  man  on  a  bicycle,  riding 
along  towards  him,  talking  to  himself  in  a  great  way. 


PIFFINGCAP  65 

"He  is  a  political  fellow  rehearsing  a  speech,"  said 
Mr.  Piffingcap  to  himself,  "or  perhaps  he  is  some 
holy-minded  person  devising  a  sermon." 

It  was  a  very  bald  man  and  he  had  a  long  face  hung 
with  glasses;  he  had  no  coat  and  rode  in  his  shirt  and 
knickerbockers,  with  hot  thick  stockings  and  white 
shoes.  The  barber  watched  him  after  he  had  passed 
and  noted  how  his  knees  turned  angularly  outwards 
at  each  upward  movement,  and  how  his  saddle  bag 
hunjj  at  the  bottom  of  his  back  like  some  ironical  label. 

"Fool!"  exclaimed  Mr.  Piffingcap,  rising  angrily,  for 
the  man's  chatter  had  driven  his  mind  clean  away  from 
the  Widow  Buckland's  meaning.  But  it  was  only  for 
a  short  while,  and  when  he  got  home  he  called  one  of 
his  daughters  into  the  saloon, 

"My  child,"  said  Piffingcap,  "you  know  the  great 
trouble  which  is  come  on  me?"  and  he  told  Bersa  his 
difficulty  and  requested  her  aid,  that  is  to  say:  would 
she  go  down  in  the  early  morning  in  her  skin  only  and 
recover  the  pot? 

"Indeed  no,  father!"  said  his  daughter  Bersa,  "it 
is  a  very  evil  thing  and  I  will  not  do  your  request." 

"You  will  not?"  says  he. 

"No!"  says  she,  but  it  was  not  in  the  fear  of  her 
getting  her  death  that  she  refused  him. 

So  he  called  to  another  of  his  daughters. 

"My  child,"  said  he,  "you  know  the  great  trouble 
that  is  come  on  me,"  and  he  told  Mavie  his  desire  and 
asked  for  her  aid. 

"Why,  my  father,"  says  she,  "this  is  a  thing  which 


66  PIFFINGCAP 

a  black  hag  has  put  on  us  all  and  I  will  get  my  death. 
I  love  you  as  I  love  my  life,  father,  but  I  won't  do 
this !" 

"You  will  not?"  says  he. 

"No !"  says  she,  but  it  was  not  for  fear  of  her  death 
she  refused  him. 

And  he  went  to  his  third  daughter  Grue  and  tried 
her  with  the  same  thing.  "My  child,  you  know  the 
trouble  that's  come  on  me  ?" 

"Oh,  will  you  let  me  alone!"  she  says,  "I've  a 
greater  trouble  on  me  than  your  mouldy  pot."  And 
it  is  true  what  she  said  of  her  trouble,  for  she  was  a 
girl  of  a  loose  habit.  So  the  barber  said  no  more  to 
them  and  went  to  his  bed. 

Two  days  later,  it  being  Saturday,  he  opened  in  the 
morning  his  saloon  and  sat  down  there.  And  while 
he  read  his  newspaper  in  the  empty  place  footsteps 
scampered  into  his  doorway,  and  the  door  itself  was 
pushed  open  just  an  inch  or  two. 

"Come  in,"  he  said,  rising. 

The  door  opened  fully. 

"Zennybody  here?"  whispered  Polly  walking  in  very 
mysteriously,  out  of  breath,  and  dressed  in  a  long 
mackintosh. 

"What  is  the  matter,  my  little  one?"  he  asked,  put- 
ting his  arm  around  her  shoulders,  for  he  had  a  fond- 
ness for  her.  "Ach,  your  hair's  all  wet,  what's  the 
matter  ?" 

The  little  girl  put  her  hand  under  the  macintosh 
and  drew  out  the  leaden  pot,  handing  it  to  the  barber 


PIFFINGCAP  67 

and  smiling  at  him  with  inarticulate  hut  intense  happi- 
ness.    She  said  not  a  word  as  he  stared  his  surprise 

and  joy. 

"Why  Polly,  my  dear,  how  did  you  j^et  it?'' 

"I  dived  in  and  got  it." 

"You  never  .  .  .  you  princess  .  .  .  you !" 

"I  just  hin  and  come  straight  here  with  it." 

She  opened  and  shut  the  mackintosh  quickly,  dis- 
playing for  a  brief  glance  her  little  white  naked  figure 
with  the  slightest  tremulous  crook  at  the  sharp  knees. 

"Ah,  my  darling,"  exclaimed  the  enraptured  barber, 
"and  you're  shivering  with  not  a  rag  on  you  but  them 
shoes  .  .  .  run  away  home,  Polly,  and  get  some  things 
on,  Polly  .  .  .  and  .  .  .  Polly,  Polly!"  as  she  darted 
away,  "come  back  quick,  won't  you?" 

She  nodded  brightly  back  at  him  as  she  sprang 
through  the  doorway.  He  went  to  the  entrance  and 
watched  her  taking  her  twinkling  leaps,  as  bonny  as 
a  young  foal,  along  the  pavement. 

And  there  came  into  the  barber's  mind  the  notion 
that  this  was  all  again  a  piece  of  fancy  tricks;  but 
there  was  the  dark  pot,  and  he  examined  it.  Thought- 
fully he  took  it  into  his  backyard  and  busied  himself 
there  for  a  while,  not  telling  his  daughters  of  its  re- 
covery. When,  later.  Polly  joined  him  in  the  garden 
he  had  already  raised  a  big  fire  in  an  old  iron  brazier 
which  had  lain  there. 

"Ah,  Polly  my  dear.  Pm  overjoyed  to  get  it  back, 
but  I  dasn't  keep  it  .  .  .  it's  a  bad  thing.  Take  it  in 
your  fingers  now,  my  dear  little  girl,  and  just  chuck 


68  PIFFINGCAP 

it  in  that  fire.  Ah,  we  must  melt  the  wickedness  out 
of  it,"  he  said,  observing  her  disappointment,  "it's  been 
the  death  of  three  men  and  we  dasn't  keep  it." 

They  watched  it  among  the  coals  until  it  had  begun 
to  perish  drop  by  drop  through  the  grating  of  the 
brazier. 

Later  in  the  day  Mr.  Piffingcap  drove  Polly  in  a 
little  trap  to  a  neighbouring  town  to  see  a  circus,  and 
the  pair  of  them  had  a  roaring  dinner  at  the  Green 
Dragon.  Next  morning  when  Polly  brought  the  milk 
to  the  saloon  there  were  Timmy  James  and  Gregory 
Barnes  being  shaved,  for  beards  had  grown  again  in 
Bagwood. 


THE  KING  OF  THE  WORLD 


THE  KING  OF  THE  WORLD 

OXCE  upon  a  time,  yes,  in  the  days  of  King 
Sennacherib,  a  young  Assyrian  captain,  val- 
iant and  desirable,  but  more  hapless  than 
either,  fleeing  in  that  strange  rout  of  the  armies  against 
Judah,  was  driven  into  the  desert.  Daily  his  company 
perished  from  him  until  he  alone,  astride  a  camel,  was 
left  searching  desperately  through  a  boundless  desert 
for  the  loved  plains  of  Shinar,  sweet  with  flocks  and 
rich  with  glittering  cities.  The  desolation  of  ironic  hor- 
izons that  he  could  never  live  to  pierce  hung  hopelessly 
in  remote  unattainable  distances,  endless  as  the  blue  sky. 
The  fate  of  his  comrades  had  left  upon  him  a  small 
pack  of  figs  and  wine,  but  in  that  uncharted  wilder- 
ness it  was  but  a  pitiable  parrying  of  death's  last  keen 
stroke.  There  was  no  balm  or  succour  in  that  empty 
sky ;  blue  it  was  as  sapphires,  but  savage  with  rays  that 
scourged  like  flaming  brass.  Earth  itself  was  not  less 
empty,  and  the  loneliness  of  his  days  was  an  increasing 
bitterness.  He  was  so  deeply  forgotten  of  men,  and  so 
removed  from  the  savour  of  life,  from  his  lost  coun- 
try, the  men  he  knew,  the  women  he  loved,  their  tem- 
ples, their  markets  and  their   homes,  that  it  seemed 

71 


72  THE  KING  OF  THE  WORLD 

the  gods  had  drawn  that  sweet  and  easy  world  away 
from  his  entangled  feet. 

But  at  last  upon  a  day  he  was  astonished  and  cheered 
by  the  sight  of  a  black  butterfly  flickering  in  the  air 
before  him,  and  towards  evening  he  espied  a  giant 
mound  lying  lonely  in  the  east.  He  drove  his  camel 
to  it,  but  found  only  a  hill  of  sand  whirled  up  by 
strange  winds  of  the  desert.  He  cast  himself  from  the 
camel's  back  and  lay  miserably  in  the  dust.  His  grief 
was  extreme,  but  in  time  he  tended  his  tired  beast 
and  camped  in  the  shadow  of  the  hill.  When  he  gave 
himself  up  to  sleep  the  night  covering  them  was  very 
calm  and  beautiful,  the  sky  soft  and  streaming  with 
stars;  it  seemed  to  his  saddened  mind  that  the  desert 
and  the  deep  earth  were  indeed  dead,  and  life  and  love 
only  in  that  calm  enduring  sky.  But  at  midnight  a 
storm  arose  with  quickening  furies  that  smote  the  des- 
ert to  its  unseen  limits,  and  the  ten  thousand  stars  were 
flung  into  oblivion ;  winds  flashed  upon  him  with  a  pas- 
sion more  bitter  than  a  million  waves,  a  terror  greater 
than  hosts  of  immediate  enemies.  They  grasped  and 
plunged  him  into  gulfs  of  darkness,  heaped  mountains 
upon  him,  lashed  him  with  thongs  of  snakes  and  scat- 
tered him  with  scimitars  of  unspeakable  fear.  His 
soul  was  tossed  in  the  void  like  a  crushed  star  and  his 
body  beaten  into  the  dust  with  no  breath  left  him  to  be- 
moan his  fate.  Nevertheless  by  a  miracle  his  soul 
and  body  lived  on. 

It  was  again  day  when  he  recovered,  day  in  the  like- 
ness of  yesterday,  the  horizons  still  infinitely  far. 
Long  past  noon,  the  sun  had  turned  in  the  sky ;  he  was 


THE  KING  OF  THE  WORLD  73 

alone.  The  camel  was  doubtless  buried  in  the  fathoms 
he  himself  had  escaped,  but  a  surprising  wonder 
greeted  his  half-blinded  eyes;  the  hill  of  sand  was 
gone,  utterly,  blown  into  the  eternal  waste  of  the  des- 
ert, and  in  its  track  stood  a  strange  thing — a  shrine. 
There  was  a  great  unroofed  pavement  of  onyx  and 
blue  jasper,  large  enough  for  the  floor  of  a  temple, 
with  many  life-size  figures,  both  men  and  women, 
standing  upon  it  all  carved  in  rock  and  facing,  at  tlie 
sacred  end,  a  giant  pillared  in  black  basalt,  seven 
times  the  height  of  a  man.  The  sad  captain  divined 
at  once  that  this  was  the  lost  shrine  of  Namu-Sarkkon, 
the  dead  god  of  whom  tradition  spoke  in  the  ancient 
litanies  of  his  country.  He  heaved  himself  painfully 
from  the  grave  of  sand  in  which  he  had  lain  half- 
buried,  and  staggering  to  the  pavement  leaned  in  the 
shade  of  one  of  those  figures  fronting  the  dead  god. 
In  a  little  time  he  recovered  and  ate  some  figs  which 
he  carried  in  a  leather  bag  at  his  hip,  and  plucked  the 
sand  from  his  eyes  and  ears  and  loosened  his  san- 
dals and  gear.  Then  he  bowed  himself  for  a  moment 
before  the  black  immobile  idol,  knowing  that  he  would 
tarry  here  now  until  he  died. 

Namu-Sarkkon,  the  priestless  god,  had  been  praised 
of  old  time  above  all  for  his  gifts  of  joy.  Worshippers 
had  gathered  from  the  cities  of  Assyria  at  this  his  only 
shrine,  offering  their  souls  for  a  gift  to  him  who,  in  his 
time  and  wisdom,  granted  their  desires.  But  Namu- 
Sarkkon,  like  other  gods,  was  a  jealous  god,  and.  be- 
cause the  hearts  of  mankind  are  vain  and  destined 
to  betrayal,  he  turned  the  bodies  of  his  devotees  into 


74  THE  KING  OF  THE  WORLD 

rock  and  kept  them  pinioned  in  stone  for  a  hundred 
years,  or  for  a  thousand  years,  according  to  the  nature 
of  their  desires.  Then  if  the  consummation  were 
worthy  and  just,  the  rock  became  a  hving  fire,  the 
blood  of  eternity  quickened  the  hmbs,  and  the  god 
released  the  body  full  of  youth  and  joy.  But  what  god 
lives  for  ever?  Not  Namu-Sarkkon.  He  grew  old 
and  forgetful ;  his  oracle  was  defamed.  Stronger  gods 
supplanted  him  and  at  last  all  power  departed  save 
only  from  one  of  his  eyes.  That  eye  possessed  the 
favour  of  eternity,  but  only  so  faintly  that  the  wor- 
shipper when  released  from  his  trap  of  stone  lived  at 
the  longest  but  a  day,  some  said  even  but  an  hour. 
None  could  then  be  found  to  exchange  the  endurances 
of  the  world  for  so  brief  a  happiness.  His  worship 
ceased,  Namu-Sarkkon  was  dead,  and  the  remote 
shrine  being  lost  to  man's  heart  was  lost  to  man's  eyes. 
Even  the  tradition  of  its  time  and  place  had  become  a 
mere  fantasy,  but  the  whirlwinds  of  uncounted  years 
sowing  their  sands  about  the  shrine  had  left  it  blame- 
less and  unperishable,  if  impotent. 

Recollecting  this,  the  soldier  gazed  long  at  the  dead 
idol.  Its  smooth  huge  bulk,  carved  wonderfully,  was 
still  without  blemish  and  utterly  cleansed  of  the  sand. 
The  strange  squat  body  with  the  benign  face  stood  on 
stout  legs,  one  advanced  as  if  about  to  stride  forward 
to  the  worshijiper,  and  one  arm  outstretched  offered 
the  sacred  symbol.  Then  in  a  moment  the  Assyrian's 
heart  leaped  within  him ;  he  had  been  staring  at  the 
mild  eyes  of  the  god — surely  there  was  a  movement  in 


THE   KING  OF  THE  WORLD  75 

one   of   the   eyes!     He   stood   erect,    trembling,    then 
flung    himself    prostrate    before    Namu-Sarkkon.    the 
living   god !     He   lay   long,   waiting    for   his   doom   to 
eclipse  him,  the  flaming  swords  of  the  sun  scathing  his 
weary  limbs,  the  sweat  from  his  temples  dripping  in 
tiny  pools  beside  his  eyes.     At  last  he  moved,  he  knelt 
up,  and  shielding  his  stricken  eyes  with  one  arm  he 
gazed  at  the  god,  and  saw  now  quite  clearly  a  black 
butterfly  resting  on  the  lid  of  one  of  Sarkkon's  eyes, 
inflecting  its  wings.     He  gave  a  grunt  of  comprehen- 
sion and  relief.     He  got  up  and  went  among  the  other 
figures.     Close  at  hand  they  seemed  fashioned  of  soft 
material,  like  camphor  or  wax,  that  was  slowly  dis- 
solving, leaving  them  little  more  than  stooks  of  clay, 
rough  clod-like  shapes  of   people,  all  but  one  figure 
which  seemed  fixed  in  coloured  marble,  a  woman  of 
beauty  so  wondrous  to  behold  that  the  Assyrian  bent 
his  head  in  praise  before  her,  though  but  an  image  of 
stone.     When  he  looked  again  at  it  the  black  butterfly 
from  the  eyelid  of  the  god  fluttered  between  them  and 
settled  upon  the  girl's  delicately  carved  lips  for  a  mo- 
ment,  and   then  away.     Amazedly   watching   it  travel 
back  to  tlie  idol  he  heard  a  movement  and  a  sigh  behind 
him.     He  leaped  away,  with  his  muscles  distended,  his 
fingers    outstretched,    and    fear   bursting    in    his    eyes. 
The  beautiful  figure  had  moved  a  step  towards  him, 
holding  out  a  caressing  hand,  calling  him  by  his  name, 
his  name! 

"Talakku !     Talakku !" 

She  stood  thus  almost  as  if  again  turned  to  stone. 


76  THE  KING  OF  THE  WORLD 

until  his  fear  left  him  and  he  saw  only  her  beauty, 
and  knew  only  her  living  loveliness  in  a  tunic  of  the 
sacred  purple  fringed  with  tinkling  discs,  that  was 
clipped  to  her  waist  with  a  zone  of  gold  and  veiled, 
even  in  the  stone,  her  secret  hips  and  knees.  The 
slender  feet  were  guarded  with  pantofBes  of  crimson 
hide.  Green  agates  in  strings  of  silver  hung  beside  her 
brows,  depending  from  a  fillet  of  gems  that  crowned 
and  confined  the  black  locks  tightly  curled.  Buds 
of  amber  and  coral  were  bound  to  her  dusky  wrists 
with  threads  of  copper,  and  between  the  delicacy  of  her 
brown  breasts  an  amulet  of  beryl,  like  a  blue  and 
gentle  star,  hung  from  a  necklace  made  of  balls  of  opal 
linked  with  amethysts. 

"Wonder  of  god!  who  are  you?"  whispered  the  war- 
rior; but  while  he  was  speaking  she  ran  past  him 
sweetly  as  an  antelope  to  the  dark  god.  He  heard  the 
clicking  of  her  beads  and  gems  as  she  bent  in  rever- 
ence kissing  the  huge  stone  feet  of  Sarkkon.  He  did 
not  dare  to  approach  her  although  her  presence  filled 
him  with  rapture ;  he  watched  her  obeisant  at  the  shrine 
and  saw  that  one  of  her  crimson  shoes  had  slipped 
from  the  clinging  heel.  What  was  she — girl  or  god- 
dess, phantom  or  spirit  of  the  stone,  or  just  some 
lunatic  of  the  desert?  But  whatever  she  was  it  was 
marvellous,  and  the  marvel  of  it  shocked  him;  time 
seemed  to  seethe  in  every  channel  of  his  blood.  He 
heard  her  again  call  out  his  name  as  if  from  very  far 
away. 

"Talakku!" 

He  hastened  to  lift  her  from  the  pavement,  and  con- 


THE  KING  OF  THE  WORLD  77 

quering  his  tremors  he  grasped  and  hfted  her  roughly, 
as  a  victor  might  hale  a  captive. 

"Pretty  antelope,  who  are  you?" 

She  turned  her  eyes  slowly  upon  his — this  was  no 
captive,  no  phantom — his  intrepid  arms  fell  back 
weakly  to  his  sides. 

"You  will  not  know  me,  O  brave  Assyrian  captain," 
said  the  girl  gravely.  "I  was  a  weaver  in  the  city  of 
Eridu.  .  .  ." 

"Eridu!"  It  was  an  ancient  city  heard  of  only  in 
the  old  poems  of  his  country,  as  fabulous  as  snow  in 
Canaan. 

"Ai  ...  it  is  long  since  riven  into  dust.  I  was  a 
slave  in   Eridu,  not  .  .  .  not  a  slave  in  spirit  .  .  ." 

"Beauty  so  rare  is  nobility  enough,"  he  said  shyly. 

"I  worshipped  god  Namu-Sarkkon — behold  his 
shrine.  Who  loves  Namu-Sarkkon  becomes  what 
he  wishes  to  become,  gains  what  he  wishes  to 
gain." 

"I  have  heard  of  these  things,"  exclaimed  the  Assyr- 
ian. "What  did  you  gain,  what  did  you  wish  to  be- 
come?" 

"I  worshipped  here  desiring  in  my  heart  to  be  loved 
by  the  King  of  the  World." 

"Who  is  he?" 

She  dropped  her  proud  glances  to  the  earth  before 
him. 

"Who  was  this  King  of  the  World?" 

Still  she  made  no  reply  nor  lifted  her  eyes. 

"Who  are  these  figures  that  stand  with  us  here?" 
he  asked. 


78  THE   KING  OF  THE  WORLD 

"Dead,  all  dead,"  she  sighed,  "their  destinies  have 
closed.     Only  I  renew  the  destiny." 

She  took  his  hand  and  led  him  among  the  wasting 
images. 

"Merchants  and  poets,  dead ;  princesses  and  slaves, 
dead;  soldiers  and  kings,  they  look  on  us  with  eyes 
of  dust,  dead,  all  dead.  I  alone  of  Sarkkon's  wor- 
shippers live  on  enduringly ;  I  desired  only  love.  I 
feed  my  spirit  with  new  desire.  I  am  the  beam  of  his 
eye." 

"Come,"  said  the  Assyrian  suddenly,  "I  will  carry 
you  to  Shinar;  set  but  my  foot  to  that  lost  track  .  .  . 
will  you?" 

She  shook  her  head  gravely ;  "All  roads  lead  to  Sark- 
kon." 

"Why  do  we  tarry  here?     Come." 

"Talakku,  there  is  no  way  hence,  no  way  for  you, 
no  way  for  me.  We  have  wandered  into  the  bound- 
less. What  star  returns  from  the  sky,  what  drop  from 
the  deep  ?" 

Talakku  looked  at  her  with  wonder,  until  the  long- 
ing in  his  heart  lightened  the  shadow  of  his  doom. 

"Tell  me  what  I  must  do,"  he  said. 

She  turned  her  eyes  towards  the  dark  god.  "He 
knows,"  she  cried,  seizing  his  hands  and  drawing  him 
towards  the  idol,  "Come,  Talakku." 

"No,  no !"  he  said  in  awe,  "I  cannot  worship  there. 
Who  can  deny  the  gods  of  his  home  and  escape  ven- 
geance? In  Shinar,  beloved  land,  goes  not  one  bee 
unhived  nor  a  bird  without  a  bower.  Shall  I  slip  my 
allegiance  at  every  gust  of  the  desert?" 


THE   KING  OF  THE  WORLD  79 

For  a  monicnt  a  look  of  anguish  appeared  in  her 
eyes. 

"Rut  if  you  will  not  leave  this  place,"  he  continued 
gently,  "suffer  me  to  stay." 

"Talakku,  in  a  while  I  must  sink  again  into  the 
stone." 

"By  all  the  gods  I  will  keep  you  till  I  die,"  he  said. 
"One  day  at  least  I  will  walk  in  Paradise." 

"Talakku,  not  a  day,  not  an  hour ;  moments,  mo- 
ments, there  are  hut  moments  now." 

"Then,  I  am  hut  dead,"  he  cried,  "for  in  that  stone 
your  sleeping  heart  will  never  dream  of  me." 

"O,  you  whip  me  with  rods  of  lilies.  Quick,  Tal- 
akku." ITe  knew  in  her  urgent  voice  the  divining 
hope  with  which  she  wooed  him.  Alas  for  the  Assyr- 
ian, he  was  hut  a  man  whose  dying  lips  are  slaked  with 
wise  honey.  He  emhraced  her  as  in  a  dream  under  the 
knees  of  towering  Sarkkon.  Her  kisses,  wrapt  in  the 
delicate  veils  of  love,  not  the  harsh  brief  glister  of 
passion,  were  more  lulling  than  a  thousand  songs  of 
lost  Shinar,  but  the  time's  sweet  swiftness  pursued 
them.  Her  momentary  life  had  flown  like  a  rushing 
star,  swift  and  delighting  but  doomed.  From  the  heel 
of  the  god  a  beetle  of  green  lustre  began  to  creep  to- 
wards them. 

"Farewell,  Talakku,"  cried  the  girl.  She  stood  again 
in  her  place  before  Namu-Sarkkon.  "Have  no  fear, 
Talakku,  prince  of  my  heart.  I  will  lock  up  in  your 
breast  all  my  soft  unsundering  years.  Like  the  bird  of 
fire  they  will  surely  spring  again." 

He  waited,  dumb,  beside  her,  and  suddenly  her  limbs 


8a  THE  KING  OF  THE  WORLD 

compacted  into  stone  once  more.  At  the  touch  of  his 
awed  fingers  her  breast  burned  with  the  heat  of  the 
sun  instead  of  the  wooing  blood.  Then  the  vast  si- 
lence of  the  world  returned  upon  him ;  he  looked  in 
trembling  loneliness  at  the  stark  sky,  the  unending  des- 
ert, at  the  black  god  whose  eye  seemed  to  flicker  bale- 
fully  at  him.  Talakku  turned  to  the  lovely  girl,  but 
once  more  amazement  gathered  in  all  his  veins.  No 
longer  stood  her  figure  there — in  its  place  he  beheld 
only  a  stone  image  of  himself. 

"This  is  the  hour,  O  beauteous  one !"  murmured  the 
Assyrian,  and,  turning  again  towards  the  giant,  he 
knelt  in  humility.  His  body  wavered,  faltered,  sud- 
denly stiffened,  and  then  dissolved  into  a  little  heap  of 
sand. 

The  same  wind  that  unsealed  Namu-Sarkkon  and  his 
shrine  returning  again  at  eve  covered  anew  the  idol 
and  its  figures,  and  the  dust  of  the  Assyrian  captain 
became  part  of  the  desert  for  evermore. 


ADAM  AND  EVE  AND  PINCH  ME 


ADAM  AND  EVE  AND  PINCH  ME 

.  .  .  AND  in  the  whole  of  his  days,  vividly  at 
the  end  of  the  afternoon — he  repeated  it  again  and 
again  to  himself — the  kind  country  spaces  had  never 
absorbed  quite  so  rich  a  glamour  of  light,  so 
miraculous  a  bloom  of  clarity.  He  could  feel  stream- 
ing in  his  own  mind,  in  his  bones,  the  same  crystalline 
brightness  that  lay  upon  the  land.  Thoughts  and 
images  went  flowing  through  him  as  easily  and 
amiably  as  fish  swim  in  their  pools ;  and  as  idly,  too, 
for  one  of  his  speculations  look  up  the  theme  of  his 
family  name.  There  was  such  an  agreeable  oddness 
about  it,  just  as  there  was  about  all  the  luminous  sky 
today,  that  it  touched  him  as  just  a  little  remarkable. 
What  did  such  a  name  connote,  signify,  or  symbolize? 
It  was  a  rann  of  a  name,  but  it  had  euphony !  Then 
again,  like  the  fish,  his  ambulating  fancy  flashed  into 
other  shallows,  and  he  giggled  as  he  paused,  peering  at 
the  buds  in  the  brake.  Turning  back  towards  his 
house  again  he  could  sec,  beyond  its  roofs,  the  spire  of 
the  Church  tinctured  richly  as  the  vane:  all  round  him 
was  a  new  grandeur  upon  the  grass  of  the  fields,  and 
the  spare  trees  had  shadows  below  that  seemed  to  sup- 
port them  in  the  manner  of  a  plinth,  more  real  than 

83 


84  ADAM  AND  EVE  AND  PINCH  ME 

themselves,  and  the  dykes  and  any  chance  heave  of  the 
level  fields  were  underlined,  as  if  for  special  emphasis, 
with  long  shades  of  mysterious  blackness. 

With  a  little  drift  of  emotion  that  had  at  other  times 
assailed  him  in  the  wonder  and  ecstasy  of  pure  light, 
Jaffa  Codling  pushed  through  the  slit  in  the  back  hedge 
and  stood  within  his  own  garden.  The  gardener  was  at 
work.  He  could  hear  the  voices  of  the  children  about 
the  lawn  at  the  other  side  of  the  house.  He  was  very 
happy,  and  the  place  was  beautiful,  a  fine  white  many- 
windowed  house  rising  from  a  lawn  bowered  with  plots 
of  mould,  turretted  with  shrubs,  and  overset  with  a 
vast  walnut  tree.  This  house  had  deep  clean  eaves, 
a  roof  of  faint  coloured  slates  that,  after  rain,  glowed 
dully,  like  onyx  or  jade,  under  the  red  chimneys,  and 
half-way  up  at  one  end  was  a  balcony  set  with  black 
balusters.  He  went  to  a  French  window  that  stood 
open  and  stepped  into  the  dining  room.  There 
was  no-one  within,  and,  on  that  lonely  instant,  a  strange 
feeling  of  emptiness  dropped  upon  him.  The  clock 
ticked  almost  as  if  it  had  been  caught  in  some  indecent 
act;  the  air  was  dim  and  troubled  after  that  glory 
outside.  Well,  now,  he  would  go  up  at  once  to  his 
study  and  write  down  for  his  new  book  the  ideas  and 
images  he  had  accumulated — beautiful  rich  thoughts 
they  were — during  that  wonderful  afternoon.  He 
went  to  mount  the  stairs  and  he  was  passed  by  one  of 
the  maids ;  humming  a  silly  song  she  brushed  past  him 
rudely,  but  he  was  an  easy-going  man — maids  were  un- 
teachably  tiresome — and  reaching  the  landing  he  saun- 
tered towards  his  room.     The  door  stood  slightly  open 


ADAM  AND   EVE  AND  PINCH   ME  85 

and  he  could  hear  voices  within.  He  put  his  hand 
upon  the  door  ...  it  would  not  open  any  further. 
What  the  devil  ...  he  pushed — like  the  bear  in  the 
tale — and  he  pushed,  and  he  pushed — was  there  some- 
thing against  it  on  the  other  side  ?  He  put  his  shoulder 
to  it  .  .  .  some  wedge  must  be  there,  and  that  was  ex- 
traordinary. Then  his  whole  apprehension  was  swept 
up  and  whirled  as  by  an  avalanche — Mildred,  his  wife, 
was  in  there ;  he  could  hear  her  speaking  to  a  man  in 
fair  soft  tones  and  the  rich  phrases  that  could  be 
used  only  by  a  woman  yielding  a  deep  affection  to 
him.  Codling  kept  still.  Her  words  burned  on  his 
mind  and  thrilled  him  as  if  spoken  to  himself.  There 
was  a  movement  in  the  room,  then  utter  silence.  He 
again  thrust  savagely  at  the  partly  open  door,  but 
he  could  not  stir  it.  The  silence  within  continued. 
He  beat  upon  the  door  with  his  fists,  crying;  "Mildred, 
Mildred!"  There  was  no  response,  but  he  could  hear 
the  rocking  arm  chair  commence  to  swMug  to  and  fro. 
Pushing  his  hand  round  the  edge  of  the  door  he  tried 
to  thrust  his  head  between  the  opening.  There  was 
not  space  for  this,  but  he  could  just  peer  into  the 
corner  of  a  mirror  hung  near,  and  this  is  what  he 
saw :  the  chair  at  one  end  of  its  swing,  a  man  sitting 
in  it,  and  upon  one  arm  of  it  Mildred,  the  beloved 
woman,  with  her  lips  upon  the  man's  face,  caressing 
him  with  her  hands.  Codling  made  another  effort  to 
get  into  the  room — as  vain  as  it  was  violent.  "Do 
you  hear  me,  Mildred?"  he  shouted.  Apparently 
neither  of  them  heard  him;  they  rocked  to  and  fro 
while  he  gazed  stupefied.     What,  in  the  name  of  God, 


86  ADAM  AND  EVE  AND  PINCH  ME 

.  .  .  What  this  .  .  .  was  she  bewitched  .  .  .  were 
there  such  things  after  all  as  magic,  devilry ! 

He  drew  back  and  held  himself  quite  steadily.  The 
chair  stopped  swaying,  and  the  room  grew  awfully 
still.  The  sharp  ticking  of  the  clock  in  the  hall  rose 
upon  the  house  like  the  tongue  of  some  perfunctory 
mocker.  Couldn't  they  hear  the  clock?  .  .  .  Couldn't 
they  hear  his  heart?  He  had  to  put  his  hand  upon  his 
heart,  for,  surely,  in  that  great  silence  inside  there, 
they  would  hear  its  beat,  growing  so  loud  now  that  it 
seemed  almost  to  stun  him !  Then  in  a  queer  way  he 
found  himself  reflecting,  observing,  analysing  his  own 
actions  and  intentions.  He  found  some  of  them  to  be 
just  a  little  spurious,  counterfeit.  He  felt  it  would  be 
easy,  so  perfectly  easy  to  flash  in  one  blast  of  anger  and 
annihilate  the  two.  He  would  do  nothing  of  the  kind. 
There  was  no  occasion  for  it.  People  didn't  really  do 
that  sort  of  thing,  or,  at  least,  not  with  a  genuine  pas- 
sion. There  was  no  need  for  anger.  His  curiosity 
was  satisfied,  quite  satisfied,  he  was  certain,  he  had 
not  the  remotest  interest  in  the  man.  A  welter  of  un- 
expected thoughts  swept  upon  his  mind  as  he  stood 
there.  As  a  writer  of  books  he  was  often  stimulated 
by  the  emotions  and  impulses  of  other  people,  and  now 
his  own  surprise  was  beginning  to  intrigue  him,  leav- 
ing him,  O,  quite  unstirred  emotionally,  but  interest- 
ing him  profoundly. 

He  heard  the  maid  come  stepping  up  the  stairway 
again,  humming  her  silly  song.  He  did  not  want  a 
scene,  or  to  be  caught  eavesdropping,  and  so  turned 
quickly  to  another  door.     It  was  locked.     He  sprang 


ADAM  AND  EVE  AND  PINCH   ME  87 

to  one  beyond  it;  the  handle  would  not  turn.  "Bah! 
what's  up  with  'em  ?"  But  the  girl  was  now  upon  him, 
carrying  a  tray  of  coffee  things.  "O,  Mary!"  he  ex- 
claimed casually,  "I  .  .  ."  To  his  astonishment  the 
girl  stei)ped  past  him  as  if  she  did  not  hear  or  see  him, 
lajiped  upon  the  door  of  his  study,  entered,  and  closed 
the  door  behind  her.  Jaffa  Codling  then  got  really 
angry.  "Hell !  were  the  blasted  servants  in  it !"  He 
dashed  to  the  door  again  and  tore  at  the  handle.  It 
would  not  even  turn,  and,  though  he  wrenched  with 
fury  at  it,  the  room  was  utterly  sealed  against  him. 
He  went  away  for  a  chair  with  which  to  smash  the 
effrontery  of  that  door.  No,  he  wasn't  angry,  either 
with  his  wife  or  this  fellow — Gilbert,__she  had  called 
him — who  had  a  strangely  familiar  aspect  as  far  as 
he  had  been  able  to  take  it  in ;  but  when  one's  servants 
.  .  .  faugh! 

The  door  opened  and  Mary  came  forth  smiling  de- 
murely. He  was  a  few  yards  further  along  the  cor- 
ridor at  that  moment.  "Mary !"  he  shouted,  "leave  the 
door  open !"  Mary  carefully  closed  it  and  turned  her 
back  on  him.  He  sprang  after  her  with  bad  words 
bursting  from  him  as  she  went  towards  the  stairs  and 
flitted  lightly  down,  humming  all  the  way  as  if  in 
derision.  He  leaped  downwards  after  her  three  steps 
at  a  time,  but  she  trotted  with  amazing  swiftness  into 
the  kitchen  and  slammed  the  door  in  his  face.  Cod- 
ling stood,  but  kept  his  hands  carefully  away  from  the 
door,  kept  them  behind  him.  "No,  no,"  he  whispered 
cunningly,  "there's  somediing  fiendish  about  door 
handles  today,  I'll  go  and  get  a  bar,  or  a  butt  of  tim- 


88         ADAM  AND   EVE  AND  PINCH   ME 

ber,"  and,  jumping  out  into  the  garden  for  some  such 
thing,  the  miracle  happened  to  him.  For  it  was  noth- 
ing else  than  a  miracle,  the  unbelievable,  the  impossible, 
simple  and  laughable  if  you  will,  but  having  as  much 
validity  as  any  miracle  can  ever  invoke.  It  was  simple 
and  laughable  because  by  all  the  known  physical  laws 
he  should  have  collided  with  his  gardener,  who  hap- 
pened to  pass  the  window  with  his  wheelbarrow  as 
Codling  jumped  out  on  to  the  path.  And  it  was  un- 
believable that  they  should  not,  and  impossible  that  they 
did  not  colhde;  and  it  was  miraculous,  because  Cod- 
ling stood  for  a  brief  moment  in  the  garden  path  and 
the  wheelbarrow  of  Bond,  its  contents,  and  Bond  him- 
self passed  apparently  through  the  figure  of  Codling 
as  if  he  were  so  much  air,  as  if  he  were  not  a  living 
breathing  man  but  just  a  common  ghost.  There  was 
no  impact,  just  a  momentary  breathlessness.  Codling 
stood  and  looked  at  the  retreating  figure  going  on 
utterly  unaware  of  him.  It  is  interesting  to  record 
that  Codling's  first  feelings  were  mirthful.  He  gig- 
gled. He  was  jocular.  He  ran  along  in  front  of  the 
gardener,  and  let  him  pass  through  him  once  more; 
then  after  him  again;  he  scrambled  into  the  man's 
barrow,  and  was  wheeled  about  by  this  incompre- 
hensible thick-headed  gardener  who  was  dead  to  all  his 
master's  eflforts  to  engage  his  attention.  Presently  he 
dropped  the  wheelbarrow  and  went  away,  leaving  Cod- 
ling to  cogitate  upon  the  occurrence.  There  was  no 
room  for  doubt,  some  essential  part  of  him  had  become 
detached  from  the  obviously  not  less  vital  part.  He 
felt  he  was  essential  because  he  was  responding  to  the 


ADAM  AND   EVE  AND  PINCH   ME  89 

experience,  he  was  re-acting  in  the  normal  way  to 
normal  stimuli,  although  he  happened  for  the  time  be- 
ing to  be  invisible  to  his  fellows  and  unable  to  com- 
municate with  tiicm.  How  had  it  come  about — this 
queer  thing?  How  could  he  discover  what  part 
of  him  had  cut  loose,  as  it  were?  There  was 
no  question  of  this  being  death;  death  wasn't  funny, 
it  wasn't  a  joke;  he  had  still  all  his  human  instincts. 
You  didn't  get  angry  with  a  faithless  wife  or 
joke  with  a  fool  of  a  gardener  if  you  were  dead, 
certainly  not !  He  had  realized  enough  of  him- 
self to  know  he  was  the  usual  man  of  instincts,  desires, 
and  prohibitions,  complex  and  contradictory ;  his  fam- 
ily history  for  a  million  or  two  years  would  have  de- 
noted that,  not  explicitly — obviously  impossible — but 
suggestively.  He  had  found  himself  doing  things  he 
had  no  desire  to  do,  doing  things  he  had  a  desire  not 
to  do,  thinking  thoughts  that  had  no  contiguous  mean- 
ings, no  meanings  that  could  be  related  to  his  general 
experience.  At  odd  times  he  had  been  chilled — aye. 
and  even  agreeably  surprised — at  the  immense  poten- 
tial evil  in  himself.  But  still,  this  was  no  mere  Jekyl 
and  Hyde  affair,  that  a  man  and  his  own  ghost  should 
separately  inhabit  the  same  world  was  a  horse  of  quite 
another  colour.  The  otherpart  of  him  was  aliveand 
active  somewhere  ...  as  alive  .  j  .  as  alive  .  .  .  yes. 
as  Jic  was.  but  dashed  if  he  knew  where!  What  a  lark 
when  they  got  back  to  each  other  and  compared  notes ! 
In  his  tales  he  had  brooded  over  so  many  imagined 
personalities,  followed  in  the  track  of  pn  many 
psychological    enigmas    that    he    had    felt    at    times 


90         ADAM  AND  EVE  AND  PINCH   ME 

a  stranger  to  himself.  What  if,  after  all,  that 
brooding  had  given  him  the  faculty  of  projecting 
this  figment  of  himself  into  the  world  of  men. 
Or  was  he  some  unrealized  latent  element  of  being 
without  its  natural  integument,  doomed  now  to  drift 
over  the  ridge  of  the  world  for  ever.  Was  it  his  per- 
sonality, his  spirit?  Then  how  was  the  dashed  thing 
working?  Here  was  he  with  the  most  wonderful  hap- 
pening in  human  experience,  and  he  couldn't  differen- 
tiate or  disinter  things.  He  was  like  a  new  Adam 
flung  into  some  old  Eden. 

There  was  Bond  tinkering  about  with  some  plants 
a  dozen  yards  in  front  of  him.  Suddenly  his  three^. 
children  came  round  from  the  other  side  of  the  house, 
the  youngest  boy  leading  them,  carrying  in  his  hand 
a  small  sword  which  was  made,  not  of  steel,  but  of 
some  more  brightly  shining  material;  indeed  it  seemed 
at  one  moment  to  be  of  gold,  and  then  again  of  flame, 
transmuting  everything  in  its  neighbourhood  into  the 
likeness  of  flame,  the  hair  of  the  little  girl  Eve.  a  part 
of  Adam's  tunic ;  and  the  fingers  of  the  boy  Gabriel  as 
he  held  the  sword  were  like  pale  tongues  of  fire.  Ga- 
briel, the  youngest  boy,  went  up  to  the  gardener  and 
gave  the  sword  into  his  hands,  saying:  "Bond,  is  this 
sword  any  good?"  Codling  saw  the  gardener  taTce  the 
weapon  and  examine  it  with  a  careful  sort  of  smile; 
his  great  gnarled  hands  became  immediately  transpar- 
ent, the  blood  could  l)e  seen  moving  diligently  about  the 
veins.  Codling  was  so  interested  in  the  sight  that  he 
did  not  gather  in  the  gardener's  reply.  The  little  boy 
was  dissatisfied  and  repeated  his  question,  "No,  but 


ADAM  AND  EVE  AND  PINCH   ME  91 

Bond,  is  this  sword  any  good?"  Codling  rose,  and 
stood  by  invisible.  The  three  beautiful  children  were 
grouped  about  the  great  angular  figure  of  the  gardener 
in  his  soiled  clothes,  looking  up  now  into  his  face,  and 
now  at  the  sword,  with  anxiety  in  all  their  puckered 
eyes.  "Well,  Marse  Gabriel,"  Codling  could  hear  him 
reply,  "as  far  as  a  sword  goes,  it  may  be  a  good  un, 
or  it  may  be  a  bad  un,  but,  good  as  it  is,  it  can  never  be 
anything  but  a  bad  thing."  lie  then  gave  it  back  to 
them;  the  boy  Adam  held  the  haft  of  it,  and  the  girl 
Eve  rubbed  the  blade  with  curious  fingers.  The 
younger  boy  stood  looking  up  at  the  gardener  with  un- 
satisfied gaze.  "But,  Bond,  cant  you  say  if  this  sword's 
any  good?"  Bond  turned  to  his  spade  and  trowels. 
"Mebbe  the  shape  of  it's  wrong,  Marse  Gabriel,  though 
it  seems  a  pretty  handy  size."  Saying  this  he  moved 
off  across  the  lawn.  Gabriel  turned  to  his  brother  and 
sister  and  took  the  sword  from  them ;  they  all  followed 
after  the  gardener  and  once  more  Gabriel  made  en- 
quiry :  "Bond,  is  this  sword  any  good?''  The  gar- 
dener again  took  it  and  made  a  few  passes  in  the  air 
like  a  valiant  soldier  at  exercise.  Turning  then,  he 
lifted  a  bright  curl  from  the  head  of  Eve  and  cut  it 
off  with  a  sweep  of  the  weapon.  He  held  it  up  to  look 
at  it  critically  and  then  let  it  fall  to  the  ground.  Cod- 
ling sneaked  behind  him  and,  picking  it  up,  stood 
stupidly  looking  at  it.  "Mebbe,  Marse  Gabriel,"  the 
gardener  was  saying,  "it  ud  be  better  made  of  steel,  but 
it  has  a  smartish  edge  on  it."  He  went  to  pick  up  the 
barrow  but  Gabriel  seized  it  with  a  spasm  of  anger,  and 
cried  out:  "No,  no,  Bond,  will  you  say,  just  yes  or  no, 


92         ADAM  AND  EVE  AND  PINCH  ME 

Bond,  is  this  sword  any  good?"  The  gardener  stood 
still,  and  looked  down  at  the  little  boy,  who  repeated 
his  question — "just  yes  or  no,  Bond!"  "No,  Marse 
Gabriel !"  "Thank  you.  Bond !"  replied  the  child  with 
dignity,  "that's  all  we  wanted  to  know,"  and,  calling'  to 
his  mates  to  follow  him,  he  ran  away  to  the  other  side 
of  the  house. 

Codling  stared  again  at  the  beautiful  lock  of  hair  in 
his  hand,  and  felt  himself  grow  so  angry  that  he 
picked  up  a  strange  looking  flower  pot  at  his  feet  and 
hurled  it  at  the  retreating  gardener.  It  struck  Bond 
in  the  middle  of  the  back  and,  passing  clean  through 
him,  broke  on  the  wheel  of  his  barrow,  but  Bond 
seemed  to  be  quite  unaware  of  this  catastrophe.  Cod- 
ling rushed  after,  and,  taking  the  gardener  by  the 
throat,  he  yelled,  "Damn  you,  will  you  tell  me  what 
all  this  means?"  But  Bond  proceeded  calmly  about 
his  work  un-noticing,  carrying  his  master  about  as  if 
he  were  a  clinging  vapour,  or  a  scarf  hung  upon  his 
neck.  In  a  few  moments.  Codling  dropped  exhausted 
to  the  ground.  "What.  .  .  .  O  Hell  .  .  .  what, 
what  am  I  to  do?"  he  groaned,  "What  has  happened 
to  me?  What  shall  I  dof  What  can  I  do?"  He 
looked  at  the  broken  flowerpot.  "Did  I  invent  that?" 
He  pulled  out  his  watch.  "That's  a  real  watch,  I  hear 
it  ticking,  and  it's  six  o'  clock."  Was  he  dead  or  dis- 
embodied or  mad?  What  was  this  infernal  lapse  of 
identity?  And  who  the  devil,  yes,  who  was  it  up- 
stairs with  Mildred?  He  jumped  to  his  feet  and 
hurried  to  the  window ;  it  was  shut ;  to  the  door,  it  was 
fastened;   he   was   powerless   to   open  either.     Well! 


ADAM  AND  EVE  AND  PINCH   ME  93 

well!  this  was  experimental  psychology  with  a  ven- 
geance, and  he  began  to  chuckle  again.  He'd  have  to 
write  to  McDougall  about  it.  Then  he  turned  and 
saw  Bond  wheeling  across  the  lawn  towards  him  again. 
"Why  is  that  fellow  always  shoving  that  infernal  green 
barrow  around  ?"  he  asked,  and,  the  fit  of  fury  seizing 
him  again,  he  rushed  towards  Bond,  but,  before  he 
reached  him,  the  three  children  danced  into  the  garden 
again,  crying,  with  great  excitement,  "Bond,  O, 
Bond !"  The  gardener  stopped  and  set  down  the  ter- 
rifying barrow;  the  children  crowded  about  him,  and 
Gabriel  held  out  another  shining  thing,  asking: 
"Bond,  is  this  box  any  good?"  The  gardener  took 
the  box  and  at  once  his  eyes  lit  up  with  interest  and 
delight.  "O,  Marse  Gabriel,  where'd  ye  get  it? 
Where'd  ye  get  it?"  "Bond,"  said  the  boy  impatiently, 
"Is  the  box  any  good?"  "Any  good?"  echoed  the 
man,  "Why,  Marse  Gabriel,  Marse  Adam,  Miss  Eve, 
look  yere!"  Holding  it  down  in  front  of  them,  he 
lifted  the  lid  from  the  box  and  a  bright  coloured  bird 
flashed  out  and  flew  round  and  round  above  their 
heads.  "O,"  screamed  Gabriel  with  delight,  "It's  a 
kingfisher!"  "That's  what  it  is,"  said  Bond,  "a  king- 
fisher!" "Where?"  asked  Adam.  "Where?"  asked 
Eve,  "There  it  flies — round  the  fountain — see  it?  see 
it !"     "No,"  said  Adam.     "No,"  said  Eve. 

"O,  do,  do,  see  it,"  cried  Gabriel,  "here  it  comes,  it's 
coming!"  and,  holding  his  hands  on  high,  and  standing 
on  his  toes,  the  child  cried  out  as  happy  as  the  bird 
which  Codling  saw  flying  above  them. 

"I  can't  see  it,"  said  Adam. 


94  ADAM  AND  EVE  AND  PINCH   ME 

"Where  is  it,  Gaby?"  asked  Eve. 

"O,  you  stupids,"  cried  the  boy,  "There  it  goes. 
There  it  goes  .  .  .  there  .  .  .  it's  gone!" 

He  stood  looking  brightly  at  Bond,  who  replaced 
the  lid. 

"What  shall  we  do  now?"  he  exclaimed  eagerly. 
For  reply,  the  gardener  gave  the  box  into  his  hand,  and 
walked  off  with  the  barrow.  Gabriel  took  the  box 
over  to  the  fountain.  Codling,  unseen,  went  after 
him,  almost  as  excited  as  the  boy ;  Eve  and  her  brother 
followed.  They  sat  upon  the  stone  tank  that  held  the 
falling  water.  It  was  difficult  for  the  child  to  un- 
fasten the  lid;  Codling  attempted  to  help  him,  but  he 
was  powerless.  Gabriel  looked  up  into  his  father's 
face  and  smiled.  Then  he  stood  up  and  said  to  the 
others : 

"Now,  do  watch  it  this  time." 

They  all  knelt  carefully  beside  the  water.  He 
lifted  the  lid  and,  behold,  a  fish  like  a  gold  carp,  but 
made  wholly  of  fire,  leaped  from  the  box  into  the  foun- 
tain. The  man  saw  it  dart  down  into  the  water,  he 
saw  the  water  bubble  up  behind  it,  he  heard  the  hiss 
that  the  junction  of  fire  and  water  produces,  and  saw 
a  little  track  of  steam  follow  the  bubbles  about  the  tank 
until  the  figure  of  the  fish  was  consumed  and  disap- 
peared. Gabriel,  in  ecstasies,  turned  to  his  sister  with 
blazing  happy  eyes,  exclaiming: 

"There !  Evey !" 

"What  was  it?"  asked  Eve,  nonchalantly,  "I  didn't 
see  anything." 

"More  didn't  I,"  said  Adam. 


ADAM  AND   EVE  AND   PINCH   ME  95 

"Didn't  you  see  that  lovely  fish?" 

"No,"  said  Adam. 

"No,"  said  Eve. 

"O,  stupids,"  cried  Gabriel,  "it  went  right  past  the 
bottom  of  the  water." 

"Let's  get  a  fishin'  hook,"  said  Adam. 

"No,  no,  no."  said  Gabriel,  replacing  the  lid  of  the 
box.     "O  no." 

Jaffa  Codling  had  remained  on  his  knees  staring  at 
the  water  so  long  that,  when  he  looked  around  him 
again,  the  children  had  gone  away.  He  got  up  and 
went  to  the  door,  and  that  was  closed;  the  windows, 
fastened.  He  went  moodily  to  a  garden  bench  and  sat 
on  it  with  folded  arms.  Dusk  had  begun  to  fall  into 
the  shrubs  and  trees,  the  grass  to  grow  dull,  the  air 
chill,  the  sky  to  muster  its  gloom.  Bond  had  over- 
turned his  barrow,  stalled  his  tools  in  the  lodge,  and 
gone  to  his  home  in  the  village.  A  curious  cat  came 
round  the  house  and  surveyed  the  man  who  sat  chained 
to  his  seven-horned  dilemma.  It  grew  dark  and  fear- 
fully silent.  Was  the  world  empty  now  ?  Some  small 
thing,  a  snail  perhaps,  crept  among  the  dead  leaves 
in  the  hedge,  with  a  sharp,  irritating  noise.  A  strange 
flood  of  mixed  thoughts  poured  through  his  mind  un- 
til at  last  one  idea  disentangled  itself,  and  he  began 
thinking  with  tremendous  fixity  of  little  Gabriel.  He 
wondered  if  he  could  brood  or  meditate,  or  "will"  with 
sufficient  power  to  bring  him  into  the  garden  again. 
The  child  had  just  vaguely  recognized  him  for  a  mo- 
ment at  the  waterside.  He'd  try  that  dodge,  telepathy 
was  a  mild  kind  of  a  trick  after  so  much  of  the  mi- 


96         ADAM  AND  EVE  AND   PINCH  ME 

raculous.  If  he'd  lost  his  blessed  body,  at  least  the 
part  that  ate  and  smoked  and  talked  to  Mildred.  .  .  . 
He  stopped  as  his  mind  stumbled  on  a  strange  recog- 
nition. .  .  .  What  a  joke,  of  course  .  .  .  idiot  .  .  . 
not  to  have  seen  that.  He  stood  up  in  the  garden  with 
joy  ...  of  course,  he  was  up^t^irs  with  Mildred,  it 
was  himself,  the  other  bit  of  him,  that  Mildred  had 
been  talking  to.     What  a  howling  fool  he'd  been. 

He  found  himself  concentrating  his  mind  on  the  pur- 
pose of  getting  the  child  Gabriel  into  the  garden  once 
more,  but  it  was  with  a  curious  mood  that  he  endeav- 
oured to  establish  this  relationship.  He  could  not  fix 
his  will  into  any  calm  intensity  of  power,  or  fixity  of 
purpose,  or  pleasurable  mental  ecstasy.  The  utmost 
force  seemed  to  come  with  a  malicious  threatening 
splenetic  "entreaty."  That  damned  snail  in  the  hedge 
broke  the  thread  of  his  meditation ;  a  dog  began  to  bark 
sturdily  from  a  distant  farm ;  the  faculties  of  his  mind 
became  joggled  up  like  a  child's  picture  puzzle,  and 
he  brooded  unintelligibly  upon  such  things  as  skating 
and  steam  engines,  and  Elizabethan  drama  so  lapped 
about  with  themes  like  jealousy  and  chastity.  Really 
now,  Shakespeare's  Isabella  was  the  most  consummate 
snob  in.  .  .  .  He  looked  up  quickly  to  his  wife's  room 
and  saw  Gabriel  step  from  the  window  to  the  balcony 
as  if  he  were  fearful  of  being  seen.  The  boy  lifted  up 
his  hands  and  placed  the  bright  box  on  the  rail  of  the 
balcony.  He  looked  up  at  the  faint  stars  for  a  mo- 
ment or  two,  and  then  carefully  released  the  lid  of  the 
box.  What  came  out  of  it  and  rose  into  the  air  ap- 
peared to  Codling  to  be  just  a  piece  of  floating  light. 


ADAM  AND  EVE  AND  PINCH   ME  97 

but  as  it  soared  above  the  roof  he  saw  it  grow  to  be 
a  Httle  ancient  ship,  with  its  hull  and  fully  set  sails  and 
its  three  masts  all  of  faint  primrose  flame  colour.  It 
cleaved  through  the  air,  rolling  slightly  as  a  ship 
through  the  wave,  in  widening  circles  above  the  house, 
making  a  curving  ascent  until  it  lost  the  shape  of  a 
vessel  and  became  only  a  moving  light  hurrying  to  some 
sidereal  shrine.  Codling  glanced  at  the  boy  on  the 
balcony,  but  in  that  brief  instant  something  had  hap- 
pened, the  ship  had  burst  like  a  rocket  and  released 
three  coloured  drops  of  fire  which  came  falling  slowly, 
leaving  beautiful  grey  furrows  of  smoke  in  their 
track.  Gabriel  leaned  over  the  rail  with  outstretched 
palms,  and,  catching  the  green  star  and  the  blue  one 
as  they  drifted  down  to  him,  he  ran  with  a  rill  of 
laughter  back  into  the  house.  Codling  sprang  forward 
just  in  time  to  catch  the  red  star;  it  lay  vividly  blast- 
ing his  own  palm  for  a  monstrous  second,  and  then, 
slipping  through,  was  gone.  He  stared  at  the  ground, 
at  the  balcony,  the  sky,  and  then  heard  an  ex- 
clamation ...  his  wife  stood  at  his  side. 

"Gilbert !  How  you  frightened  me !"  she  cried,  "I 
thought  you  were  in  your  room ;  come  along  in  to 
dinner."  She  took  his  arm  and  they  walked  up  the 
steps  into  the  dining  room  together.  "Just  a  moment," 
said  her  husband,  turning  to  the  door  of  the  room. 
His  hand  was  upon  the  handle,  which  turned  easily  in 
his  grasp,  and  he  ran  upstairs  to  his  own  room.  He 
opened  the  door.  The  light  was  on,  the  fire  was  burn- 
ing brightly,  a  smell  of  cigarette  smoke  about,  pen 
and   paper  upon  his  desk,   the  Japanese  book-knife. 


98         ADAM  AND  EVE  AND  PINCH  ME 

the  gilt  matchbox,  everything  all  right,  no  one  there. 
He  picked  up  a  book  from  his  desk.  .  .  .  Monna 
Vanna.  His  bookplate  was  in  it — Ex  Libris — Gilbert  j 
Cannistcr.  He  put  it  down  beside  the  green  dish; 
two  yellow  oranges  were  in  the  green  dish,  and  two 
most  deliberately  green  Canadian  apples  rested  by  their 
side.  He  went  to  the  door  and  swung  it  backwards 
and  forwards  quite  easily.  He  sat  on  his  desk  trying 
to  piece  the  thing  together,  glaring  at  the  print  and  the 
book-knife  and  the  smart  matchbox,  until  his  wife 
came  up  behind  him  exclaiming:  "Come  along,  Gil- 
bert!" 

"Where  are  the  kids,  old  man?"  he  asked  her,  and, 
before  she  replied,  he  had  gone  along  to  the  nursery. 
He  saw  the  two  cots,  his  boy  in  one,  his  girl  in  the 
other.  He  turned  whimsically  to  Mildred,  saying, 
"There  arc  only  two,  are  there?"  Such  a  question  did 
not  call  for  reply,  but  he  confronted  her  as  if  expect- 
ing some  assuring  answer.  She  was  staring  at  him  with 
her  bright  beautiful  eyes. 

"Are  there  ?"  he  repeated. 

"How  strange  you  should  ask  me  that  now !"  she 
said.  .  .  .  "If  you're  a  very  good  man  .  .  .  per- 
haps. .  .  ." 

"Mildred !" 

She  nodded  brightly. 

He  sat  down  in  the  rocking  chair,  but  got  up  again 
saying  to  her  gently — "We'll  call  him  Gabriel." 

"But,  suppose — " 

"No,  no,"  he  said,  stopping  her  lovely  lips,  "I  know 
all  about  him,"     And  he  told  her  a  pleasant  little  tale. 


THE  PRINCESS  OF  KINGDOM  GONE 


THE  PRINCESS  OF  KINGDOM  GONE 

LONG  ago  a  princess  ruled  over  a  very  tiny  king- 
dom, too  small,  indeed,  for  ambition.  Had  it 
been  larger  sbe  migbt  have  been  a  queen,  and 
had  it  been  seven  times  larger,  so  people  said,  she  would 
certainly  have  been  an  empress.  As  it  was,  the  bar- 
barians referred  to  her  country  as  "that  field !"  or  put 
other  indignities  upon  it  which,  as  she  was  high-minded, 
the  princess  did  not  heed,  or,  if  she  did  heed,  had  too 
much  pride  to  acknowledge. 

In  other  realms  her  mansion,  her  beautiful  mansion, 
would  have  been  called  a  castle,  or  even  a  palace,  so  high 
was  the  wall,  crowned  with  pink  tiles,  that  enclosed 
and  protected  it  from  evil.  The  common  gaze  was 
warded  from  the  door  by  a  grove  of  thorns  and  trees, 
through  which  an  avenue  curved  a  long  way  round  from 
the  house  to  the  big  gate.  The  gate  was  of  knotted 
oak,  but  it  had  been  painted  and  grained  most  cleverly 
to  represent  some  other  fabulous  wood.  There  was 
this  inscription  upon  it :  no  hawkers,  no  circulars, 
NO  GRATUITIES.  Everybody  knew  the  princess  had  not 
got  any  of  these  things,  but  it  was  because  they  also 
knew  the  mansion  had  no  throne  in  it  that  people 
sneered,  really — but  how  unreasonable;  you  might  just 

101 


I02       THE  PRINCESS  OF   KINGDOM  GONE 

as  well  grumble  at  a  chime  that  hadn't  got  a  clock! 
As  the  princess  herself  remarked — "What  is  a  throne 
v/ithout  highmindedness !" — hinting,  of  course,  at  cer- 
tain people  whom  I  dare  not  name.  Behind  the  man- 
sion lay  a  wondrous  garden,  like  the  princess  herself 
above  everything  in  beauty.  A  very  private  bower  was 
in  the  midst  of  it,  guarded  with  corridors  of  shaven 
yew  and  a  half-circle  hedge  of  arbutus  and  holly.  A 
slim  river  flowed,  not  by  dispensation,  but  by  accident, 
through  the  bower,  and  the  bed  and  bank  of  it,  screened 
by  cypresses,  had  been  lined,  not  by  accident  but  by  de- 
sign— so  strange  are  the  workings  of  destiny- — with 
tiles  and  elegant  steps  for  a  bathing  pool.  Here  the 
princess,  when  the  blazon  of  the  sun  was  enticing, 
used  to  take  off  her  robes  of  silk  and  her  garments  of 
linen  and  walk  about  the  turf  of  the  bower  around  the 
squinancy  tree  before  slipping  into  the  dark  velvet 
water. 

One  day  when  she  stepped  out  from  the  pool  she 
discovered  a  lot  of  crimson  flower  petals  clinging  to 
her  white  skin.  "How  beautiful  they  are,"  she  cried, 
picking  up  her  mirror,  "and  where  do  they  come  from  ?" 
As  soon  as  convenient  she  enquired  upon  this  matter  of 
her  Lord  Chancellor,  a  man  named  Smith  who  had 
got  on  very  well  in  life  but  was  a  bit  of  a  smudge. 

"Crimson  petals  in  the  bath!" 

"Yes,  they  have  floated  down  with  the  stream." 

"How  disgusting !  Very !  I'll  make  instant  enqui- 
ries !" 

He  searched  and  he  searched — he  was  very  thorough 
was  Smith — but  though  his  researches  took  no  end  of 


THE  PRINCESS  OF   KINGDOM  GONE        103 

time,  and  he  issued  a  bulky  dossier  commanding  all  and 
sundry  to  attach  the  defiant  person  of  the  niiscrcmt  or 
miscreants  who  had  defiled  the  princess's  bath  stream 
or  pool  with  refuse  detritus  or  scum,  offering,  too,  re- 
wards for  information  leading  to  his,  her  or  their  de- 
tection, conviction,  and  ultimate  damnation,  they  availed 
him  not.  The  princess  continued  to  bathe  and  to 
emerge  joyfully  from  the  stream  covered  with  petals 
and  looking  as  wonderful  as  a  crimson  leopard.  She 
caught  some  of  the  petals  with  a  silver  net;  she  dried 
them  upon  the  sunlight  and  hid  them  in  the  lining  of 
her  bed,  for  they  were  full  of  acrid  but  pleasing  odours. 
So  she  herself  early  one  morning  walked  abroad,  early 
indeed,  and  passed  along  the  river  until  she  came  to  the 
field  adjoining  the  mansion.  Very  sweet  and  strange 
the  world  seemed  in  the  quiet  after  dawn.  She  stopped 
beside  a  half-used  rick  to  look  about  her;  there  was  a 
rush  of  surprised  wings  behind  the  stack  and  a  thou- 
sand starlings  fled  up  into  the  air.  She  heard  their 
wings  beating  the  air  until  they  had  crossed  the  river 
and  dropped  gradually  into  an  elm  tree  like  a  black 
shower.  Then  she  perceived  a  tall  tree  shining  with 
crimson  blooms  and  long  dark  boughs  bending  low 
upon  the  river.  Near  it  a  tiny  red  cottage  stood  in 
the  field  like  a  painted  box,  surrounded  by  green  tri- 
angular bushes.  It  was  a  respectable  looking  cottage, 
named  River  Viczv.  On  her  approach  the  door  sud- 
denly opened,  and  a  youth  with  a  towel,  just  that  and 
nothing  more,  emerged.  He  took  flying  rejoicing  leajis 
towards  the  flaming  tree,  sprung  upon  its  lowest  limb 
and  flung  himself  into  the  stream.     He  glided  there 


104       THE  PRINCESS  OF  KINGDOM  GONE 

like  a  rod  of  ivory,  but  a  crimson  shower  fell  from 
the  quivering  tree  and  veiled  the  pleasing  boy  until 
he  climbed  out  upon  the  opposite  bank  and  stood 
covered,  like  a  leopard,  w^ith  splendid  crimson  scars. 
The  princess  dared  peer  no  longer;  she  retraced  her 
steps,  musing  homewards  to  breakfast,  and  was  rude 
to  Smith  because  he  was  such  a  fool  not  to  have  dis- 
covered the  young  man  who  lived  next  door  under  the 
mysterious  tree. 

At  the  earliest  opportunity  she  left  a  card  at  River 
View.  Narcissus  was  the  subject's  name,  and  in  due 
time  he  came  to  dinner,  and  they  had  green  grapes 
and  black  figs,  nuts  like  sweet  wax  and  wine  like 
melted  amethysts.  The  princess  loved  him  so  much 
that  he  visited  her  very  often  and  stayed  very  late. 
He  was  only  a  poet  and  she  a  princess,  so  she  could 
not  possibly  marry  him  although  this  was  what  she  very 
quickly  longed  to  do;  but  as  she  was  only  a  princess, 
and  he  a  poet  clinking  his  golden  spurs,  he  did  not 
want  to  be  married  to  her.  He  had  thick  curling 
locks  of  hair  red  as  copper,  the  mild  eyes  of  a  child, 
and  a  voice  that  could  outsing  a  thousand  delightful 
birds.  When  she  heard  his  soft  laughter  in  the  dim 
delaying  eve  he  grew  strange  and  alluring  to  the  prin- 
cess. She  knew  it  was  because  he  was  so  beautiful 
that  everybody  loved  him  and  wanted  to  win  and  keep 
him,  but  he  had  no  inclination  for  anything  but  his  art 
— which  was  to  express  himself.  That  was  very  sad 
for  the  princess;  to  be  able  to  retain  nothing  of  him 
but  his  poems,  his  fading  images,  while  he  himself 
eluded   her   as   the   wind   eludes   all   detaining  arms, 


THE  PRINCESS  OF   KINGDOM  GONE        105 

forest  and  feather,  briar  and  down  of  a  bird.  He  did 
not  seem  to  be  a  man  at  all  hut  just  a  fairy  image  that 
slipped  from  her  arms,  gone,  like  brief  music  in  the 
moonlight,  before  she  was  aware. 

When  he  fell  sick  she  watched  by  his  bed. 

"Tell  me,"  she  murmured,  her  wooing  palms  caress- 
ing his  flaming  hair,  "tell  me  you  love  me." 

All  he  would  answ^er  was :  "I  dream  of  loving  you, 
and  I  love  dreaming  of  you,  but  how  can  I  tell  if  I 
love  you?" 

Very  tremulous  but  arrogant  she  demanded  of  him : 
"Shall  I  not  know  if  you  love  me  at  all?" 

"Ask  the  fox  in  your  brake,  the  hart  upon  your 
mountain.     I  can  never  know  if  you  love  me." 

"I  have  given  you  my  deepest  vows,  Narcissus; 
love  like  this  is  wider  than  the  world." 

"The  same  wind  blows  in  desert  as  in  grove." 

"You  do  not  love  at  all." 

"Words  are  vain,  princess,  but  when  I  die,  put 
these  white  hands  like  flowers  about  my  heart;  if  I 
dream  the  unsleeping  dream  I  will  tell  you  there." 

"My  beloved,"  she  said,  "if  you  die  I  will  put  upon 
your  grave  a  shrine  of  silver,  and  in  it  an  ark  of  gold 
jewelled  with  green  garnets  and  pink  sapphires.  My 
spirit  should  dwell  in  it  alone  and  wait  for  you ;  until 
you  came  back  again  I  could  not  live." 

The  poet  died. 

The  princess  was  wild  with  grief,  but  she  com- 
manded her  Lord  Chancellor  and  he  arranged  magnifi- 
cent obsequies.  The  shrine  of  silver  and  the  ark  of 
jewelled  gold  were  ordered,  a  grave  dug  in  a  new 


I06        THE  PRINCESS  OF  KINGDOM  GONE 

planted  garden  more  wonderful  than  the  princess's 
bower,  and  a  To  Let  bill  appeared  in  the  window  of 
River  Viezv.  At  last  Narcissus,  with  great  pomp,  was 
buried,  the  shrine  and  the  ark  of  gold  were  clapped 
down  upon  him,  and  the  princess  in  blackest  robes 
was  led  away  weeping  on  the  arm  of  Smith — Smith 
was  wonderful. 

The  sun  that  evening  did  not  set — it  mildly  died 
out  of  the  sky.  Darkness  came  into  the  meadows,  the 
fogs  came  out  of  them  and  hovered  over  the  river  and 
the  familiar  night  sounds  began.  The  princess  sat  in 
the  mansion  with  a  lonely  heart  from  which  all  hopes 
were  receding ;  no,  not  receding,  she  could  see  only  the 
emptiness  from  which  all  her  hopes  had  gone. 

At  midnight  the  spirit  of  Narcissus  in  its  cerecloth 
rose  up  out  of  the  grave,  frail  as  a  reed;  rose  out  of 
its  grave  and  stood  in  the  cloudy  moonlight  beside  the 
shrine  and  the  glittering  ark.  He  tapped  upon  the 
jewels  with  his  fingers  but  there  was  no  sound  came 
from  it,  no  fire,  no  voice.  "O  holy  love,"  sighed  the 
ghost,  "it  is  true  what  I  feared,  it  is  true,  alas,  it  is 
true!"  And  lifting  again  his  vague  arm  he  crossed 
out  the  inscription  on  his  tomb  and  wrote  there  instead 
with  a  grey  and  crumbling  finger  his  last  poem: 

Pride  and  grief  in  your  Jiearf, 
Love  and  grief  in  mine. 

Then  he  crept  away  until  he  came  to  the  bower  in  the 
princess's  garden.  It  was  all  silent  and  cold ;  the  moon 
was  touching  with  brief  beam  the  paps  of  the  plaster 


THE  PRINCESS  OF   KINGDOM  GONE        107 

Diana.  The  ghost  laid  himself  down  to  rest  for  ever 
beneath  the  squinancy  tree,  to  rest  and  to  wait ;  he 
wanted  to  forestall  time's  inscrutable  awards.  He 
sank  slowly  into  the  earth  as  a  knot  of  foam  slips 
through  the  beach  of  the  seashore.  Deep  down  he 
rested  and  waited. 

Day  after  day,  month  after  month,  the  constant 
princess  went  to  her  new  grove  of  lamentation.  The 
grave  garden  was  magnificent  with  holy  flowers,  the 
shrine  polished  and  glistening,  the  inscription  crisp 
and  clear — the  ghost's  erasure  being  vain  for  mortal 
eyes.  In  the  ark  she  knew  her  spirit  brooded  and 
yearned,  she  fancied  she  could  see  its  tiny  flame  be- 
hind the  garnets  and  sapphires,  and  in  a  way  this 
gave  her  happiness.  Meanwhile  her  own  once  happy 
bower  was  left  to  neglect.  The  bolt  rusted  in  its 
gate,  the  shrubs  rioted,  tree  trunks  were  crusted  with 
oozy  fungus,  their  boughs  cracked  to  decay,  the  rose 
fell  rotten,  and  toads  and  vermin  lurked  in  the  deso- 
lation of  the  glades.  'Twas  pitiful;  'twas  as  if  the 
heart  of  the  princess  had  left  its  pleasant  bower  and 
had  indeed  gone  to  live  in  her  costly  shrine. 

In  the  course  of  time  she  was  forced  to  go  away 
on  business  of  state  and  travelled  for  many  months ; 
on  her  return  tlie  face  of  the  Lord  Chancellor  was 
gloomy  with  misery.  The  golden  ark  had  been  stolen. 
Alarm  and  chagrin  filled  the  princess.  She  went  to 
the  grave.  It  too  had  now  grown  weedy  and  looked 
forlorn.  It  was  as  if  her  own  heart  had  been  stolen 
away  from  her.  "Oh,"  she  moaned,  "what  does  it 
matter !"  and,  turning  away,  went  home  to  her  bower. 


lo8        THE  PRINCESS  OF   KINGDOM  GONE 

There,  among  that  sad  sight,  she  saw  a  strange  new 
tree  almost  in  bloom.  She  gave  orders  for  the  pool 
to  be  cleansed  and  the  bower  restored  to  its  former 
beauty.  This  was  done,  and  on  a  bright  day  when 
the  blazon  of  the  sun  was  kind  she  went  into  the 
bower  again,  flung  her  black  robes  from  her,  and 
slipped  like  a  rod  of  ivory  into  the  velvet  water. 
There  were  no  blooms  to  gather  now,  though  she 
searched  with  her  silver  net,  but  as  she  walked  from 
the  pool  her  long  hair  caught  in  the  boughs  of  the 
strange  tall  squinancy  tree,  and  in  the  disentangling  it 
showered  upon  her  beautiful  crimson  blooms  that  as 
they  fell  lingered  upon  her  hips,  her  sweet  shoulders, 
and  kissed  her  shining  knees. 


COMMUNION 


COMMUNION 

HR  was  of  years  calendared  in  unreflecting 
minds  as  tender  years,  and  he  was  clothed  in 
tough  corduroy  knickerbockers,  once  the 
habiliments  of  a  huger  being,  reaching  to  the  tops  of 
some  boots  shod  with  tremendous  nails  and  fastened 
by  bits  of  fugitive  string.  His  jacket  was  certainly  the 
jacket  of  a  child — possibly  some  dead  one,  for  it  was 
not  his  own — and  in  lieu  of  a  collar  behold  a  twist  of 
uncoloured,  unclean  flannel.  Pink  face,  pink  hands, 
yellow  hair,  a  quite  unredeemable  dampness  about 
his  small  nose — altogether  he  was  a  country  boy. 

"What  are  you  doing  there,  Tom  Prowse?"  asked 
Grainger,  the  sexton,  entering  to  him  suddenly  one 
Saturday  afternoon.  The  boy  was  sitting  on  a  bench 
in  the  empty  nave,  hands  on  knees,  looking  towards 
the  altar.  He  rose  to  his  feet  and  went  timidly  through 
the  doorway  under  the  stern  glance  of  that  tall  tall 
man,  whose  height  enabled  him  to  look  around  out  of 
a  grave  when  it  was  completely  dug.  "You  pop  on  out 
of  'ere,"  said  Grainger,  threateningly,  but  to  himself, 
when  the  boy  had  gone. 

Walking  into  the  vestry  Grainger  emptied  his  pockets 
of  a  number  of  small  discarded  bottles  and  pots  of 
various  shapes  and  uses — ink  bottles,  bottles  for  gum 

111 


112  COMMUNION 

and  meat  extract,  fish-paste  pots,  and  tins  which  had 
contained  candy.  He  left  them  there.  The  boy,  after 
he  had  watched  him  go  away,  came  back  and  resumed 
his  seat  behind  one  of  the  round  piers. 

A  lady  dressed  in  black  entered  and,  walking  to  the 
front  stall  under  the  pulpit,  knelt  down.  The  boy 
stared  at  the  motionless  figure  for  a  long  time  until  his 
eyes  ached  and  the  intense  silence  made  him  cough  a 
little.  He  was  surprised  at  the  booming  hollow  echo 
and  coughed  again.  The  lady  continued  bowed  in  her 
place ;  he  could  hear  her  lips  whispering  sibilantly :  the 
wind  came  into  the  porch  with  sudden  gust  and  lifted 
the  arras  at  the  door.  Turning  he  knocked  his  clumsy 
boots  against  the  bench.  After  that  the  intense  silence 
came  back  again,  humming  in  his  ears  and  almost  stop- 
ping his  breath,  until  he  heard  footsteps  on  the  gravel 
path.  The  vicar's  maid  entered  and  went  towards  the 
vestry.  She  wished  to  walk  softly  when  she  observed 
the  kneeling  lady  but  her  left  shoe  squeaked  stubbornly 
as  she  moved,  and  both  heels  and  soles  echoed  in  sharp 
tones  along  the  tiles  of  the  chancel.  The  boy  heard 
the  rattle  of  a  bucket  handle  and  saw  the  maid  place 
the  bucket  beside  the  altar  and  fetch  flowers  and 
bottles  and  pots  from  the  vestry.  Some  she  stood 
upon  the  table  of  the  altar;  others,  tied  by  pieces  of 
string,  she  hung  in  unique  positions  upon  the  front 
and  sides,  filling  them  with  water  from  the  pail  as  she 
did  so;  and  because  the  string  was  white,  and  the 
altar  was  white,  and  the  ugly  bottles  were  hidden  in 
nooks  of  moss,  it  looked  as  if  the  very  cloth  of  the 
altar  sprouted  with  casual  bloom. 


COMMUNION  113 

Not  until  the  maid  had  departed  did  the  lady  who 
had  hcen  bf)wed  so  long  lift  up  her  head  adoringly  to- 
wards the  brass  cross;  the  boy  overheard  her  deep 
sigh ;  then  she,  too,  went  away,  and  in  a  few  moments 
more  the  boy  followed  and  walked  clumsily,  thought- 
fully, to  his  home. 

His  father  was  the  village  cobbler.  He  was  a 
widower,  and  he  was  a  freethinker  too ;  no  mere  passive 
rejector  of  creeds,  but  an  active  opponent  with  a  creed 
of  his  own,  which  if  less  violent  was  not  less  bigoted 
than  those  he  so  witheringly  decried.  The  child  Tom 
had  never  been  allowed  to  attend  church;  until  today, 
thus  furtively,  he  had  never  even  entered  one,  and  in 
the  day  school  religious  instruction  had  been  forbidden 
by  his  atheistic  father.  But  while  faith  goes  on  work- 
ing its  miracles  the  whirligigs  of  unfaith  bring  on 
revenges.  The  boy  now  began  to  pay  many  secret 
visits  to  the  church.  He  would  walk  under  the 
western  tower  and  slip  his  enclosing  palms  up  and 
down  the  woolly  rope  handles,  listen  to  the  slow  beat 
of  the  clock,  and  rub  with  his  wristband  the  mouldings 
of  the  brass  lectern  with  the  ugly  bird  on  a  ball  and  the 
three  singular  chubby  animals  at  the  foot,  half  ox, 
half  dog,  displaying  monstrous  teeth.  He  scrutinized 
the  florid  Georgian  memorial  fixed  up  the  wall,  re- 
cording the  virtues,  which  he  could  not  read,  of  a  de- 
parted Rodney  Giles;  made  of  marble,  there  were  two 
naked  fat  little  boys  with  wings ;  they  pointed  each  with 
one  hand  towards  the  name,  and  with  the  other  held 
a  handkerchief  each  to  one  tearful  eye.  This  was 
very  agreeable  to  young  Prowse,  but  most  he  loved  to 


1 14  COMMUNION 

sit  beside  one  of  the  pillars — the  stone  posties,  he  called 
them — and  look  at  the  window  above  the  altar  where 
for  ever  half  a  dozen  angels  postured  rhythmically  upon 
the  ladder  of  Jacob. 

One  midsummer  evening,  after  evensong,  he  entered 
for  his  usual  meditation.  He  had  no  liking  for  any 
service  or  ritual;  he  had  no  apprehension  of  the 
spiritual  symbols  embodied  in  the  building;  he  only 
liked  to  sit  there  in  the  quiet,  gazing  at  things  in  a 
dumb  sort  of  way,  taking,  as  it  were,  a  bath  of  holi- 
ness. He  sat  a  long  time;  indeed,  so  still  was  he,  he 
might  have  been  dozing  as  the  legions  of  dead 
parishioners  had  dozed  during  interminable  dead  ser- 
mons. When  he  went  to  the  door — the  light  having 
grown  dim — he  found  it  was  locked.  He  was  not  at 
all  alarmed  at  his  situation :  he  went  and  sat  down 
again.  In  ten  minutes  or  so  he  again  approached  tlie 
door  ...  it  was  still  locked.  Then  he  walked  up  the 
aisle  to  the  chancel  steps  and  crossed  the  choir  for  the 
first  time.  Choristers'  robes  were  in  the  vestry,  and 
soon,  arrayed  in  cassock  and  surplice,  he  was  walking 
with  a  singular  little  dignity  to  his  old  seat  by  one  of 
the  pillars.  He  sat  there  with  folded  hands,  the  church 
growing  gloomier  now;  he  climbed  into  the  pulpit  and 
turned  over  the  leaves  of  the  holy  book;  he  sat  in  the 
choir  stalls,  pretended  to  play  the  organ,  and  at  last 
went  before  the  altar  and,  kneeling  at  the  rails,  clasped 
his  orthodox  hands  and  murmured,  as  he  had  heard 
others  murmuring  there,  a  rigmarole  of  his  scholastic 
hours : 


COMMUNION  115 

Thirty  days  hath  September, 

April,  June  and  Novejnber. 

All  the  rest  have  thirty-one. 

Excepting  February  alone, 

And  leap  year  coming  once  in  four, 

February  then  has  one  day  more. 

Re-entering  the  vestry,  he  observed  on  a  shelf  in 
a  niche  a  small  loaf  wrapped  in  a  piece  of  linen.  He 
felt  hungry  and  commenced  to  devour  the  bread,  and 
from  a  goblet  there  he  drank  a  little  sip  of  sweet  tast- 
ing wine.  He  liked  the  wine  very  much,  and  drank 
more  and  more  of  it. 

There  was  nothing  else  to  be  done  now  in  the  dark- 
ness, so  he  went  on  to  the  soft  carpet  within  the  altar 
rails,  and,  piling  up  a  few  of  the  praying  mats  from  the 
choir — little  red  cushions  they  were,  stamped  with 
black  fieur-de-lys,  which  he  admired  much  in  the  day- 
light— he  fell  asleep. 

And  he  slept  long  and  deeply  until  out  of  some 
wonderful  place  he  began  to  hear  the  word  "Ruffian, 
Ruffian,"  shouted  with  anger  and  harshness.  He  was 
pulled  roughly  to  his  feet,  and  apprehension  was  shaken 
into  his  abominable  little  head. 

The  morning  sunlight  was  coming  through  the  altar 
window,  and  the  vicar's  appearance  was  many-coloured 
as  a  wheelwright's  door ;  he  had  a  green  face,  and  his 
surplice  was  scaled  with  pink  and  purple  gouts  like  a 
rash  from  some  dreadful  rainbow.  And  dreadful  in- 
deed was  the  vicar  as  he  thrust  the  boy  down  the  altar 


Il6  COMMUNION 

steps  into  the  vestry,  hissing  as  he  did,  "Take  off  those 
things !"  and  darting  back  to  throw  the  cushions  into 
proper  places  to  support  the  knees  of  the  expected 
devotees. 

"Now,  how  did  you  get  in  here?"  he  demanded, 
angrily. 

The  boy  hung  up  the  cassock :  "Someone  locked  me 
in  last  night,  Sir." 

"Who  was  it?" 

"I  dunno,  Sir,  they  locked  me  in  all  night." 

His  interrogator  glared  at  him  for  a  moment  in 
silence,  and  the  boy  could  not  forbear  a  yawn. 
Thereat  the  vicar  seized  him  by  the  ear  and,  pulling  it 
with  such  animation  as  to  contort  his  own  features  as 
well  as  the  child's,  dragged  him  to  the  vestry  door,  gur- 
gling with  uncontrolled  vexation,  "Get  out  of  this.  Get 
out  .  .  .  you  .  .  .  you  beast!" 

As  the  boy  went  blinking  down  the  nave  the  tenor 
bell  began  to  ring;  the  stone  posties  looked  serene  and 
imperturbable  in  new  clean  sunlight,  and  that  old  black- 
bird was  chirping  sweetly  in  the  lilac  at  the  porch. 


THE  QUIET  WOMAN 


THE  QUIET  WOMAN 

IT  was  the  loneliest  place  in  the  world,  Hardross 
said.  A  little  cogitation  and  much  experience  had 
given  him  the  fancy  that  the  ark  of  the  kingdom 
of  solitude  was  lodged  in  a  lift,  any  lift,  carrying  a 
charter  of  mute  passengers  from  the  pavement  to  any 
sort  of  Parnassus.  Nothing  ever  disturbs  its  velveteen 
progression;  no  one  ever  speaks  to  the  lift  man  (un- 
less it  happens  to  be  a  lift  girl).  At  Hardross's  place 
of  abode  it  happened  to  be  a  lift  boy,  sharp  and  white- 
faced,  whose  tough  hair  was  swept  backwards  in  a  stiflf 
lock  from  his  brow,  while  his  pert  nose  seemed  inclined 
to  pursue  it.  His  name  was  Brown.  His  absences 
from  duty  were  often  coincident  with  the  arrivals 
and  departures  of  Mr.  Hardross.  His  hands  were 
brown  enough  if  the  beholder  carried  some  charity  in 
his  bosom,  but  the  aspect  of  his  collar  or  his 
shoes  engendered  a  deal  of  vulgar  suspicion,  and 
his  conduct  was  at  once  inscrutable  and  unscrupulous. 
It  may  have  been  for  this  reason  that  Hardross  had 
lately  begun  walking  the  whole  downward  journey 
from  his  high  chamber,  but  it  must  have  been  something 
less  capricious  that  caused  him  always  to  essay  the 
corresponding  upward  flight.  A  fancy  for  exercise 
perhaps,  for  he  was  a  robust  musician,  unmarried, 
and  of  course,  at  thirty-three  or  thirty- four,  had  come 

119 


120  THE  QUIET  WOMAN 

to  the  years  of  those  indiscretions  which  he  could  with 
impunity  and  without  reprobation  indulge. 

On  the  second  floor,  outside  the  principal  door  of 
one  set  of  chambers,  there  always  stood  a  small  con- 
sole table;  it  was  just  off  the  landing,  in  an  alcove  that 
covered  two  other  doors,  a  little  dark  angular-limbed 
piece  of  furniture  bearing  a  green  lacquer  dish  of 
void  visiting  cards,  a  heap  that  seemed  neither  to  in- 
crease nor  dwindle  but  lay  there  as  if  soliciting,  so 
naively,  some  further  contributions.  Two  maiden 
ladies,  the  Misses  Pilcher,  who  kept  these  rooms,  had 
gone  to  France  for  a  summer  holiday,  but  though  the 
flat  had  for  the  time  being  some  new  occupants  the 
console  table  still  kept  its  place,  the  dish  of  cards  of 
course  languishing  rather  unhopefully.  The  new  ten- 
ants were  also  two  ladies,  but  they  were  clearly  not 
sisters  and  just  as  clearly  not  Pilcherly  old  maids. 
One  of  them,  Hardross  declared,  was  the  loveliest 
creature  he  had  ever  seen.  She  was  dark,  almost  tall, 
about  as  tall  as  Hardross  though  a  little  less  robust 
and  rather  more  graceful.  Her  mature  scarlet  lips 
and  charming  mature  eyes  seemed  always  to  be  want- 
ing to  speak  to  him.  But  she  did  not  speak  to  him, 
even  when  he  modestly  tried  to  overcome,  well,  not 
her  reserve — no  one  with  such  sparkling  eyes  could 
possibly  be  reserved — but  her  silence.  He  often  passed 
her  on  the  landing  but  he  did  not  hear  her  voice,  or 
music,  or  speech,  or  any  kind  of  intercourse  within  the 
room.  He  called  her  The  Quiet  Woman.  The  other 
lady,  much  older,  was  seldom  seen;  she  was  of  great 
dignity.     The  younger  one  walked  like  a  woman  con- 


THE  QUIET  WOMAN  121 

scious  and  proud  of  the  beauty  underneath  her  beau- 
tiful clothes;  the  soft  sHppers  she  wore  seemed  charged 
with  that  silent  atmosphere.  Even  the  charwoman 
who  visited  them  daily  and  rattled  and  swept  about 
was  sealed  of  the  conspiracy  of  silence;  at  least  he 
never  caught — though  it  must  be  confessed  that  he 
guiltily  tried — the  passage  of  a  single  word.  What 
was  the  mystery  of  the  obstinately  silent  menage?  Did 
the  elder  lady  suffer  from  sorrow  or  nerves ;  was  she 
under  a  vow;  was  she  a  genius  writing  a  sublirhe 
book? 

The  voiceless  character  of  the  intercourse  did  not 
prevent  Hardross  becoming  deeply  enamoured  and  at 
the  same  time  deeply  baffled.  Morning  and  evening 
as  he  went  to  the  great  city  church  of  which  he  was 
organist  he  would  often  catch  a  glimpse  of  his  quiet 
woman  on  the  stairs.  At  favourable  junctures  he  had 
lifted  his  hat  and  said  Good-morning  or  Good-evening, 
but  she  had  turned  away  as  if  overcome  by  confusion 
or  an  excess  of  propriety. 

"I  am  a  coward,"  he  would  think;  "shyness  and 
difndence  rule  me,  they  curse  me,  they  ruin  my  life; 
but  she,  good  heavens !  is  extraordinarily  retiring. 
Why,  I  am  just  a  satyr,  a  rampant  raging  satyr,  a 
satyr!"  And  he  would  liken  her  to  Diana,  always 
darting  with  such  fawnlike  modesty  from  the  alcove 
whenever  he  approached.  He  did  not  even  know  her 
name.  He  wanted  to  enquire  of  the  lift  boy  Brown  or 
the  porter,  but  there  again  he  lacked  the  casual  touch  to 
bring  off  the  information.  The  boy  was  too  young,  too 
cute,  too  vulgar,  and  the  porter  too  taciturn,  as  diffl- 


122  THE  QUIET  WOMAN 

cult  for  Hardross  to  approach  as  an  archbishop  would 
have  been.  But  Miss  Barker  now,  that  milHner,  down 
below  on  the  ground  floor !  She  would  know ;  she 
knew  everybody  and  everything  about  the  chambers  in- 
cluding, quite  familiarly,  Hardross  himself — she  would 
be  sure  to  know.  But  even  she  would  have  to  be 
approached  with  discrimination. 

"Evening,  Miss  Barker!"  he  cried.  The  good- 
looking  spinster  peered  up  from  a  half -trimmed  bonnet. 
"When  do  you  go  for  a  holiday,  then?" 

"Holidays,"  she  sighed,  though  the  corner  of  her 
mouth  was  packed  with  pins,  "I  cannot  afford  holi- 
days." 

"Ho-ho,  you  can't  afford !" 

Their  common  fund  of  repartee  lay  in  his  confident 
assumption  that  she  was  roHing  in  surplus  income  and 
her  counter  assertion  that  she  was  stricken  in  poverty ; 
that  people — the  pigs — would  not  pay  her  prices,  or 
that  those  who  did  not  flinch  at  her  prices  would  not 
pay  her  bills. 

"Astonishing,  deplorable,  this  Mammon-worship!" 
he  declared,  leaning  genially  upon  her  table;  "you 
know,  it  breaks  my  heart  to  see  you  a  slave  to  it,  a 
woman  of  a  thousand,  ten  thousand  in  fact.  Give  it 
up,  O," — he  beat  the  table  with  his  hand — "give  it  up 
before  it  is  too  late!" 

"Too  late  for  what?"  she  asked. 

"Why,  all  the  delightful  things  a  woman  like  you 
could  do." 

"As  what?" 


THE  QUIET  WOMAN  123 

"O  .  .  .  travel,  glories  of  nature,  you  know,  friend- 
ship, men  .  .  .  love  itself." 

"Give  me  all  the  money  I  want," — she  was  brusque 
about  it,  and  began  to  dab  the  unwanted  pins  back 
into  their  cushion — "and  I'll  buy,  yes  buy,  a  sweetheart 
for  each  day  in  the  week." 

"Heavens  now!"  He  was  chilled  by  this  implica- 
tion of  an  experience  that  may  have  been  dull,  that 
must  have  been  bitter,  but  he  floundered  on:  "What 
now  would  you  give  for  me?" 

"For  you !"  She  contemplated  him  with  gravity : 
"To  be  sure  I  had  not  thought  of  you,  not  in  that 
way." 

"O  but  please  do  think  of  me,  dear  lady,  put  me  in 
your  deepest  regard." 

The  ghost  of  a  knowing  grin  brushed  her  features. 
Really  a  charming  woman,  in  parts.  A  little  stout, 
perhaps,  and  she  had  fat  red  hands,  but  her  heart  was 
a  good  substantial  organ,  it  was  in  the  right  place,  and 
her  features  seemed  the  best  for  wear. 

"You  are  one  of  those  surprising  ladies" — he  plunged 
gaily — "who've  a  long  stocking  somewhere,  with  trunks 
full  of  shares  and  scrip,  stocks  at  the  bank  and  mort- 
gages at  your  solicitor's.  O  yes,  yes,"  he  cried  out 
against  her  protestation,  "and  you  will  make  a  strange 
will  leaving  it  all  to  me!" 

She  shook  her  head  hopelessly,  bending  again 
over  the  bonnet  whose  desperate  skeleton  she  had 
clothed  with  a  flounce  of  crimson  velvet.  She  was 
very  quiet. 


124  THE  QUIET  WOMAN 

"Have  I  been  rude?"  he  hazarded.     "Forgive  me." 

"Well,  it's  not  true,"  she  insisted. 

"Forgive  me — I  have  hurt  you — of  course  it's  not 
true." 

Apparently  she  forgave  him;  he  was  soon  asking 
if  there  were  any  rooms  to  let  in  the  building.  "Fur- 
nished, I  mean."  He  gave  rein  to  his  naive  strategy: 
"I  have  friends  who  want  to  come  here  and  stay  with 
me  for  a  short  holiday.  I  thought  you  might  know 
of  some." 

"In  these  flats?"  She  shook  her  head,  but  he  per- 
sisted and  played  his  artful  card: 

"The  Miss  Pilchers,  on  the  second  floor,  haven't 
they  gone  away?" 

She  did  not  know — why  not  ask  the  porter. 

"Yes,  I  must  ask  the  porter,  but  I  can  never  catch 
the  porter,  he  is  so  fugitive,  he  is  always  cutting  his 
lucky.     I  hate  that  man,  don't  you?" 

And  there,  temporarily,  he  had  to  leave  it. 

So  many  days  passed  now  without  a  glimpse  of  his 
lovely  one  that  he  had  almost  brought  himself  to  the 
point  of  tapping  at  the  door  and  enquiring  after  her 
welfare,  only  the  mysterious  air  of  the  apartment — 
how  strange,  how  soundless  it  was — forbade  any  such 
crudeness.  One  morning  he  recklessly  took  a  cigarette 
from  his  case  and  laid  it  upon  the  console  table  as  he 
passed.  When  he  returned  later  the  cigarette  was 
gone;  it  had  been  replaced  by  a  chocolate  cream,  just 
one,  a  big  one.  He  snatched  it  away  and  rapturously 
ate  it.  Later  in  the  day  he  was  blessed  by  a  deep 
friendly  gaze,  as  she  flitted  into  her  room.     Hardross 


THE  QUIET  WOMAN  125 

rejoiced;  in  the  morning  he  left  another  cigarette  and 
was  again  rewarded. 

"But  O  God  help  me,"  he  thought,  '1  can't  go  on 
like  this!" 

So  he  bought  a  whole  box  of  bonbons,  but  his 
courage  deserted  him  as  he  approached  their  door;  he 
left  the  package  upon  the  console  table  and  slunk 
guiltily  away.  The  next  morning  he  observed  a  whole 
box  of  cigarettes,  a  well-known  exquisite  brand,  laid 
temptingly  there.  He  stretched  his  eager  hand  towards 
it,  but  paused.  Could  that  be  a  gift  for  him?  Heavens 
above!  What  were  the  miraculous  gods  about  to 
shower  upon  him?  Was  this  their  delicate  symbol? 
He  could  not  believe  it,  no,  he  could  not,  he  left  the 
box  lying  there.  And  it  lay  there  for  hours  indeed  until 
he  crept  down  and  seized  it.  Afterwards  he  walked 
trembling  into  the  brighter  air  and  went  for  a  long 
ride  on  the  top  of  an  omnibus.  There  had  been  no 
letter,  but  he  fancied  that  he  had  got  hold  of  a  clue. 
"Be  very  careful,  Hardross  my  boy,  this  is  too 
too  splendid  to  spoil." 

An  afternoon  or  so  later  he  met  her  coming  into 
the  hall,  a  delicious  figure  with  gay  parasol  and  wide 
white  hat.     He  delayed  her : 

"Let  me  thank  you,  may  I,  for  those  perfect  cigar- 
ettes?" 

The  lovely  creature  did  not  reply.  She  just  smiled 
her  recognition  of  him ;  she  did  not  speak  nor  move 
away,  she  stood  there  quite  silent  and  timid.  ^ 

"I  wonder,"  he  began  again,  "if  I  might" — it  sounded 
dreadfully  silly  to  him,  but  having  begun  he  went  on — 


126  THE  QUIET  WOMAN 

"if  I  might  invite  you  to  my  church  this  evening,  a 
rather  special  choral  service,  very  jolly,  you  know. 
I'm  the  organist;  would  you  come?" 

No  answer. 

"Would  you  care  to  come?" 

She  lifted  both  her  hands  and  touching  her  lips  and 
ears  with  significant  gestures  shook  her  head  ever  so 
hopelessly  at  him. 

"Deaf  and  dumb !"  he  exclaimed.  Perhaps  the  shock 
of  the  revelation  showed  too  painfully  in  his  face  for 
she  turned  now  sadly  away.  But  the  hall  was  divinely 
empty.  He  caught  one  of  the  exquisite  hands  and 
pressed  it  to  his  lips. 

Thereafter  Hardross  walked  about  as  if  he  too  were 
deaf  and  dumb,  except  for  a  vast  effusion  of  sighs. 
He  could  praise  that  delicacy  of  the  rarest  whereby  she 
had  forborne  to  lure  him,  as  she  could  so  easily  have 
done,  into  a  relation  so  shrouded  and  so  vague.  But 
that  did  not  solve  his  problem,  it  only  solidified  it.  He 
wanted  and  awaited  the  inspiration  of  a  gesture  she 
could  admire,  something  that  would  propitiate  her 
delicacy  and  alarms.  He  did  not  want  to  destroy 
by  clumsy  persistencies  the  frail  net  of  her  regard  for 
him ;  he  was  quite  clear  about  that,  the  visible  fineness 
of  her  quality  so  quelled  him.  Applying  himself  to  the 
task  he  took  lessons  in  the  alphabet  language,  that  in- 
ductile response  of  fingers  and  thumbs. 

Meanwhile  she  had  marked  her  sense  of  the  com- 
plication by  hiding  like  a  hurt  bird,  and  although  the 
mystery  of  the  quiet  rooms  was  now  exposed  she  her- 
self remained  unseen.     He  composed  a  graceful  note 


THE  QUIET  WOMAN  127 

and  left  it  upon  the  console  table.  The  note  dis- 
appeared but  no  reply  came :  she  made  no  sign  and  he 
regretted  his  ardour. 

Such  a  deadlock  of  course  could  not  exist  for  ever, 
and  one  evening  he  met  her  walking  up  the  stairs.  She 
stopped  mutually  with  him.  He  was  carrying  his 
music.  He  made  a  vain  attempt  to  communicate  with 
her  by  means  of  his  finger  alphabet,  but  she  did  not 
understand  him  although  she  delightedly  made  a  reply 
on  her  fingers  which  he  was  too  recently  initiated  to 
interpret.  They  were  again  at  a  standstill :  he  could 
think  of  nothing  to  do  except  to  open  his  book  of  organ 
music  and  show  her  the  title  page.  She  looked  it  over 
very  intelligently  as  he  tried  by  signs  to  convey  his 
desire  to  her,  but  he  was  certain  she  was  blank  about 
it  all.  He  searched  his  pockets  for  a  pencil — and  swore 
at  his  non-success.  There  he  stood  like  a  fool,  star- 
ing at  her  smiling  face  until  to  his  amazement  she  took 
his  arm  and  they  descended  the  stairs,  they  were  in  the 
street  together.  He  walked  to  the  church  on  some- 
thing vastly  less  substantial  than  air,  and  vastly  supe- 
rior. 

Hardross's  church  was  square  atid  ugly,  with  large 
round-headed  windows.  Its  entrance  was  up  some  steps 
between  four  Corinthian  pillars  upon  the  bases  of 
which  cabmen  snoozed  when  it  was  warm  or  coughed 
and  puflfed  in  the  winter  cold.  There  was  a  pump  on 
the  kerb  and  a  stand  for  hackney  cabs.  A  jungle  of 
evergreens  squatted  in  a  railed  corner  under  the  tower, 
with  a  file  of  iris  plants  that  never  flowered.  Upon  the 
plinth  of  the  columns  a  ribald  boy  had  chalked : 


128  THE  QUIET  WOMAN 

REMOVE   THIS   OBSTACLE 

Eternally  at  the  porch  tired  cabhorses  drooped  and 
meditated,  while  the  drivers  cut  hunches  of  bread  and 
meat  or  cheese  or  onion  and  swallowed  from  their 
tin  bottles  the  cold  tea  or  other  aliment  associated 
with  tin  bottles.  There  was  always  a  smell  of  dung 
at  the  entrance,  and  an  aroma  of  shag  tobacco  from 
the  cabmen's  pipes  curled  into  the  nave  whenever  the 
door  opened  for  worshippers.  Inside  the  church 
Hardross  ushered  his  friend  to  a  seat  that  he  could 
watch  from  his  organ  loft.  There  were  few  people 
present.  He  borrowed  a  lead  pencil  from  a  choir  boy, 
and  while  the  lesson  was  being  perfunctorily  intoned, 
sounding  like  some  great  voice  baffled  by  its  infinitely 
little  mind,  he  scribbled  on  a  sheet  of  paper  the  ques- 
tions he  was  so  eager  to  ask;  what  was  her  name 
and  things  like  that: 

How  can  we  communicate?  May  I  zvrite  to  you? 
Will  you  to  me?  Excuse  the  catechism  and  scribble 
but  I  want  so  much  to  know  you  and  grab  at  this 
opportunity. 

Yours  devotedly 
John  Hardross 

When  he  looked  up  her  place  was  empty;  she  had 
gone  away  in  the  middle  of  the  service.  He  hurried 
home  at  last  very  perturbed  and  much  abashed,  for  it 
was  not  so  much  the  perplexities  of  intercourse,  the 
torment  of  his  dilemma,  that  possessed  him  now  as  a 
sense  of    felicities   forbidden  and  amenities  declined. 


THE  QUIET  WOMAN  1 29 

But  his  fickle  intelligence  received  a  sharp  admon- 
itory nudge  on  the  following  evening  when  he  espied 
her  sitting  in  the  same  place  at  church  for  all  the  world 
as  if  she  had  not  deserted  it  on  the  evening  before. 
Then  he  remembered  that  of  course  she  couldn't  hear 
a  thing — idiot  he  was  to  have  invited  her.  iVgain  she 
left  the  church  before  the  close  of  the  service.  This 
for  several  days,  the  tantalized  lover  beholding  her 
figure  always  hurrying  from  his  grasp. 

He  pursued  the  practice  of  the  deaf  and  dumb 
alphabet  with  such  assiduity  that  he  became  almost 
apt  in  its  use;  the  amount  of  affection  and  devotion  that 
he  could  transcribe  on  finger  and  thumb  was  prodigious, 
he  yearned  to  put  it  to  the  test.  When  at  last  he  met 
her  again  in  the  hall  he  at  once  began  spelling  out 
things,  absurd  things,  like:  "May  I  beg  the  honour  of 
your  acquaintance?"  She  watched  this  with  interest, 
with  excitement  even,  but  a  shadow  of  doubt  crept 
into  her  lovely  eyes.  She  moved  her  own  fingers 
before  him,  but  in  vain ;  he  could  not  interpret  a  single 
word,  not  one.  He  was  a  dense  fool ;  O  how  dense, 
how  dense!  he  groaned.  But  then  he  searched  his 
pockets  and  brought  out  the  note  he  had  scribbled  in 
church.  It  was  a  little  the  worse  for  wear  but  he 
smoothed  it,  and  standing  close  by  her  side  held  it  for 
her  perusal.  Again  his  hopes  were  dashed.  She 
shook  her  head,  not  at  all  conclusively  but  in  a  vague 
uncomprehending  way.  She  even  with  a  smile  indi- 
cated her  need  of  a  pencil,  which  he  promptly  supplied. 
To  his  amazement  what  she  scribbled  upon  the  page 
were  some  meaningless  hieroglyphs,  not  letters,  though 


130  THE  QUIET  WOMAN 

they  were  grouped  as  in  words,  but  some  strange  abra- 
cadabra. He  looked  so  dismally  at  her  that  she  smiled 
again,  folding  the  paper  carefully  ere  she  passed  on  up 
the  stairs. 

Hardross  was  now  more  confounded  than  ever.  A 
fearful  suspicion  seized  him:  was  she  an  idiot,  was  it 
a  mild  insanity,  were  those  marks  just  the  notation  of 
a  poor  diseased  mind?  He  wished  he  had  kept  that 
letter.  God,  what  a  tragedy !  But  as  he  walked  into 
the  town  his  doubts  about  her  intellect  were  dispelled. 
Poof !  only  an  imbecile  himself  could  doubt  that 
beautiful  staring  intelligence.  That  was  not  it;  it  was 
some  jugglery,  something  to  do  with  those  rooms. 
Nothing  was  solved  yet,  nothing  at  all;  how  uncanny 
it  was  becoming ! 

He  returned  in  the  afternoon  full  of  determination. 
Behold,  like  a  favourable  augury,  the  door  by  the  con- 
sole table  stood  open,  wide  open.  It  did  occur  to  him 
that  an  open  door  might  be  a  trap  for  unwary  men 
but  he  rapped  the  brass  knocker  courageously.  O! 
course  there  was  no  response — how  could  there  be — 
and  he  stepped  inside  the  room.  His  glance  had  but 
just  time  to  take  in  the  small  black  piano,  the  dark 
carpet,  the  waxed  margins  of  the  floor,  the  floral 
dinginess  of  the  walls  brightened  by  mirrors  and 
softened  by  gilt  and  crimson  furniture,  when  the  quiet 
woman,  his  Diana,  came  to  him  joyfully  holding  out 
both  her  hands.  Well,  there  was  no  mystery  here 
after  all,  nothing  at  all,  although  the  elder  lady  was 
out  and  they  were  apparently  alone.  Hardross  held 
her  hands  for  some  moments,  the  intensity  of  which 


THE  QUIET  WOMAN  131 

was  as  deeply  projected  in  her  own  eyes  as  in  the 
tightness  of  his  clasp.  And  there  was  tea  for  him ! 
She  was  at  her  brightest,  in  a  frock  of  figured  muslin, 
and  sitting  before  her  he  marvelled  at  the  quickness 
of  her  understanding,  the  vividness  of  her  gestures, 
the  gentleness  with  which  she  touched  liris  sleeve. 
That  criminal  suspicion  of  her  sanity  crowned  him 
with  infamy.  Such  communication  was  deliciously 
intimate;  there  came  a  moment  when  Hardross  in  a 
wild  impulsive  ecstasy  flung  himself  before  her,  bow- 
ing his  head  in  her  lap.  The  quiet  woman  was  giving 
him  back  his  embraces,  her  own  ardour  was  drooping 
beautifully  upon  him,  when  he  heard  a  strange  voice 
exclaim  in  the  room:  "God  is  my  help!  Well  then!" 
A  rattle  of  strange  w-ords  followed  which  he  could 
not  comprehend.  He  turned  to  confront  the  elder 
woman,  who  surveyed  them  with  grim  amusement. 
The  other  stood  up,  smiling,  and  the  two  w^omen  spoke 
in  finger  language.  The  newcomer  began  to  remove 
her  gloves,  saying : 

"It  is  Mr.  Hardross  then.  I  am  glad  to  meet. 
There  is  a  lot  of  things  to  be  spoken,  eh?" 

She  was  not  at  all  the  invalid  he  had  half  expected 
to  find.  She  removed  her  hat  and  came  back  a  com- 
petent-looking woman  of  about  fifty,  who  had  really 
an  overwhelming  stream  of  conversation.  She  took 
tea  and,  ignoring  the  girl  as  if  she  were  a  block  of 
uncomprehending  ornament,  addressed  herself  to  the 
interloper. 

"You  do  not  know  mc,  Mr.  Hardross?" 

"It  is  a  pleasure  I  have  but  looked  forward  to," 


132  THE  QUIET  WOMAN 

he  replied,  in  the  formal  manner  that  at  times  irre- 
sistibly seized  him,  "with  the  keenest  possible  antic- 
ipation and.  .  .  ." 

"No,  I  am  Madame  Peshkov.  We  are  from  Odessa, 
do  you  know  it  ?  We  go  back  to  our  Russia  tomorrow ; 
yes,  it  is  true." 

His  organs  of  comprehension  began  to  crackle  in 
his  skull,  but  he  went  on  stirring  his  fresh  cup  of  tea 
and  continued  to  do  so  for  quite  a  long  time. 

"No,  you  .  .  .  are  .  .  .  Russian !  I  did  not  know." 
Amid  his  musing  astonishment  that  fact  alone  was 
portentous;  it  explained  so  much,  everything  in  fact, 
but  how  he  could  ever  contrive  to  learn  such  a  language 
was  the  question  that  agitated  him,  so  fearfully  difficult 
a  language,  and  on  his  fingers  too !  Then  that  other 
thunderclap  began  to  reverberate:  they  were  going, 
when  was  it?  Tomorrow!  All  this  while  Madame 
Peshkov  ran  on  with  extravagant  volubility.  She  had 
the  habit  of  picking  one  of  the  hairpins  from  her  hair 
and  gently  rubbing  her  scalp  with  the  rounded  end  of 
it;  she  would  replace  the  pin  with  a  stylish  tap  of  her 
fingers.  It  was  a  long  time  before  Hardross  extracted 
the  pith  from  her  remarks,  and  then  only  when  the 
hypnotism  induced  by  the  stirring  of  his  tea  suddenly 
lapsed ;  he  became  aware  of  the  dumb  girl's  gaze  fixed 
piercingly  upon  him,  while  his  own  was  drawn  away 
by  the  force  of  the  other's  revelations.  What  he  had 
already  taken  in  was  sad  and  strange.  Her  name  was 
Julia  Krasinsky.  She  was  not  at  all  related  to  Madame 
Peshkov,  she  was  an  orphan.  Madame's  own  daughter 
had  been  deaf  and  dumb,  too,  and  the  girls  had  been  in- 


THE  QUIET  WOMAN  1 33 

separable  companions  until  two  years  ago,  when  Nat- 
alia Peshkov  had  died — O,  an  unspeakable  grief  still. 
He  gathered  that  Madame  was  a  widow,  and  that  since 
Natalia's  death  the  two  women  had  lived  and  travelled 
together.  Madame  talked  on ;  it  was  tremendously  ex- 
citing to  Hardross  crouching  in  his  chair,  but  all  that 
echoed  in  his  mind  were  the  words  Julia  Krasinsky, 
Julia  Krasinsky,  until  she  suddenly  asked  him: 

"Do  you  love  her  ?" 

He  was  startled  by  this  appalling  directness;  he 
stammered  a  little  but  he  finally  brought  out : 

"I  adore  her.  Beyond  everything  I  deeply  deeply 
love  her,"  He  then  added:  "I  feel  shameful  enough 
now,  I  rage  inwardly.  All  these  many  weeks  I  have 
dallied  like  a  boy,  I  did  not  understand  the  situation. 
I  have  wasted  our  chances,  our  time,  and  now  you  are 
going." 

"You  can't  waste  time";  retorted  the  abrupt  lady. 
"Time  deals  with  you  no  matter  how  you  use  his 
hours." 

"I  suppose  so,"  he  agreed  quite  helplessly,  "but  we 
might  have  been  extraordinary  friends." 

"O,  but  you  are,  eh!  She  is  bewitched,  you  can- 
not speak  to  her,  she  cannot  speak  to  you,  but  yet  you 
love.  O,  she  is  vairy  vairy  fond  of  you,  Mr.  Har- 
dross.    Why  not?     She  has  the  best  opinions  of  you." 

"Ah,  she  will  change  her  opinion  now.  A  fool  like 
me?" 

"No  one  ever  changes  an  opinion.  Your  opinions 
govern  and  guide  and  change  you.  H  they  don't  they 
are  not  worth  holding.     And  most  of  them  are  not, 


134  THE  QUIET  WOMAN 

eh,  do  you  see,  we  are  such  fools  but  God  is  our  help." 

She  talked  confidently,  intimately  and  quickly,  but 
Hardross  wished  she  would  not  do  so,  or  use  her  hair- 
pins in  that  absurd  distracting  way.  He  himself  had 
no  confidence;  he  was  reserved  by  nature,  irrevocably, 
and  the  mask  of  deliberation  was  necessary  to  him. 

"Madame  Peshkov,  I  shall  take  her  out  for  a  walk 
in  the  town,  now,  at  once!"  he  cried. 

"Ah,  so?"  Madame  nodded  her  head  vigorously, 
even  approvingly.  He  had  sprung  up  and  approached 
the  quiet  woman.  All  her  gentle  nearness  overcame 
him  and  he  took  her  audaciously  into  his  arms.  Not 
less  eagerly  she  slid  to  his  breast  and  clung  there  like  a 
bird  to  the  shelter  of  its  tree.  Julia  turned  to  Madame 
Peshkov  with  a  smiling  apologetic  shrug,  as  much  as  to 
say:  "What  can  one  do  with  such  a  fellow,  so  strong 
he  is,  you  see !"  Madame  bade  him  bring  Julia  later 
on  to  the  cafe  where  they  always  dined. 

His  happiness  was  profound.  He  had  never  had  an 
experience  so  moving  as  the  adorable  dumb  woman  by 
his  side:  yet  so  unsurprising,  as  if  its  possibility  had 
always  lain  goldenly  in  his  mind  like  an  undreamed 
dream,  or  like  music,  half -remembered  music.  There 
was  nothing,  of  course,  just  nothing  they  could  talk 
about.  They  could  look  into  shop  windows  together 
rather  intimately,  and  they  were  a  long  time  in  a  shady 
arcade  of  the  park,  full  of  lime-browsing  bees,  wher"e 
they  sat  watching  a  peacock  picking  the  gnats  oflF  the 
shrubs.  It  was  the  pleasantest  possible  defeat  of  time. 
Then  there  was  the  handsome  girl  crossing  the  yard 
of  a  weaving  mill  as  they  passed.     She  was  carrying 


THE  QUIET  WOMAN  135 

a  great  bale  of  bright  blue  wool  and  had  glanced  at 
them  with  a  friendly  smile.  Her  bare  white  arms 
encircled  the  wool :  she  had  big  gilt  rings  in  her  ears, 
and  her  fine  shining  chestnut-coloured  hair  was  dis- 
arrayed and  tumbled  upon  the  bale.  Julia  had  pressed 
his  arm  with  joy.  Yes,  she  delighted  in  the  things 
he  delighted  in;  and  she  felt  too  that  sense  of  sorrow 
that   hung   in   the  air  about   them. 

Her  appearance  in  the  cafe  stirred  everybody  like  a 
wave  of  sweet  air.  Hardross  was  filled  with  pride. 
He  felt  that  it  was  just  so  that  she  would  enrich  the 
world  wherever  she  wandered,  that  things  would  re- 
spond to  her  appearance  in  astonishing  mysterious 
ways.  Why,  even  the  empty  wine  glasses  seemed  to 
behave  like  large  flowers  made  miraculously  out  of 
water,  a  marvel  of  crystal  petals  blooming  but  for  her ; 
certainly  the  glasses  on  other  tables  didn't  look  at  all 
like  these.  He  drank  four  glasses  of  wine  and 
after  dinner  they  all  sat  together  in  the  flat  until  the  hah 
darkness  was  come.  And  now  Madame  Peshkov  too 
was  very  silent ;  she  sat  smoking  or  scratching  her  head 
with  her  pins.  It  was  nine  o'clock,  but  there  re- 
mained a  preposterous  glare  in  the  west  that  threw 
lateral  beams  against  the  tops  of  tall  buildings,  although 
the  pavements  were  already  dim.  It  made  the  fronts  of 
the  plastered  houses  over  the  way  look  like  cream 
cheese.  Six  scarlet  chimney  pots  stood  stolidly  at 
attention — the  torsos  of  six  guardsmen  from  whom 
head  and  limbs  had  been  unkindly  smitten;  the  roof 
seemed  to  be  rushing  away  from  them.  Beyond  was  an 
echo  uf  the  sunset,  faint  in  the  northern  sky.     How 


136  THE  QUIET  WOMAN 

sweet,  how  sad,  to  sit  so  silently  in  this  tremulous 
gloom.  It  was  only  at  the  last  when  they  parted  at  her 
door  that  the  shadow  of  their  division  became  omni- 
present.    Then  it  overwhelmed  them. 

Hardross  crept  upstairs  to  his  own  rooms.  In  such 
plights  the  mind,  careless  of  time  present  and  time  past, 
full  of  an  anguish  that  quenches  and  refills  like  a 
sponge,  writhes  beyond  hope  with  those  strange  lesions 
of  demeanour  that  confound  the  chronicler.  Tra-la-la, 
sang  the  distracted  man,  snapping  his  sweating  fingers 
in  time  with  a  ribald  leering  ditty,  Tra-la-la.  He 
dropped  plumb  to  Atlantean  depths  of  grief,  only  to 
emerge  like  a  spouting  whale  with  the  maddening  Tra- 
la-la  tugging  him,  a  hook  in  his  body,  from  despair  to 
dementia.  He  was  roused  from  this  vertiginous  exer- 
cise by  a  knocking  at  his  door.  The  door  was  thrust 
open,  and  Madame  Peshkov  asked  if  he  was  there. 
He  rose  up  and  switched  on  a  light. 

"What  is  to  be  done  now?"  cried  the  lady.  If  her 
silence  below  had  been  complete,  as  complete  as  poor 
Julia's,  she  was  now  fully  audible  and  not  a  little  agi- 
tated. "What  is  to  be  done?  I  cannot  believe  it  of 
her  but  it  is  true,  as  true  as  God !" 

Hardross  beheld  her  sink,  stricken  with  some 
trouble,  into  an  armchair,  beating  her  hands  together. 

"I  have  no  influence,  gone  it  is,  no  power  over  her, 
none  whatever.  What  is  to  be  done?  Assist  us 
please.  She  has  been  so.  .  .  .  O,  for  days,  and  now 
it  comes,  it  comes.  .  .  ." 

"What  has  come  ?"  he  interrupted  sharply. 


THE  QUIET  WOMAN  137 

"I  cannot  believe  it  of  her,  but  it  is  true  ...  as  God. 
She  is  like  a  vast  .  .  .  cold  .  .  .  stone,  a  mountain." 

"Is  this  about  Julia?" 

"She  will  not  go.  Of  course  she  will  not  go!  She 
declines,  she  will  not  come  back  to  Odessa.  She  says 
she  will  not  come.  I  have  to  tell  you  this,  Mr.  Har- 
dross,  I  cannot  move  her.  She  is  like  a  vast  .  .  .  cold 
.  .  .  stone.     What  then  ?" 

Madame's  appeal  seemed  pregnant  with  a  signifi- 
cance that  he  but  dimly  savoured.  He  asked :  "What 
is  she  going  to  do  then?" 

"To  stop  in  this  England,  here,  in  this  very  place ! 
But  our  passages  are  booked,  tomorrow  it  is — pooh, 
it  does  not  matter ! — I  am  to  leave  her  here  in  this 
place,  here  she  will  stay,  in  a  foreign  land,  without 
speech  or  understanding.  But  what  is  to  be  done,  I 
ask  of  you?" 

He  was  delirious  himself ;  he  kept  whispering  Julia, 
Julia,  but  he  managed  to  ask  with  a  lugubrious  cover- 
ing of  propriety : 

"What?     I  don't  know.     Shall  I  go  to  her?" 

"But  can  you  not  see?  Do  you  comprehend,  you 
Hardross?  O,  it  is  a  madness,  I  want  to  explain  it 
to  you  but  it  is  all  so  gross,  so  swift,  like  a  vulture. 
You  see  it  is  impossible  for  me  to  remain  an  hour 
longer,  an  hour  in  England  impossible  absolutely; 
there  are  reasons,  lives  perhaps,  depending  on  my  re- 
turn. Yes,  it  is  true ;  we  live  in  Russia,  do  you  sec, 
and  in  Russia  .  .  .  ah,  you  understand !  But  how 
shall  I  leave  this  woman  here?" 


138  THE  QUIET  WOMAN 

Madame  stared  at  him  with  curious  inquisitiveness, 
beating  her  hands  upon  the  arm  of  the  chair  as  if  she 
expected  an  answer,  a  prompt  one : 

"Of  course  she  will  not  go  away  from  you  now, 
of  course,  of  course,  she  has  never  had  a  lover  before 
— how  could  she,  poor  thing.  I  understand  it,  she  is 
not  a  child.  And  you  Mr.  Hardross  you  are  a  gener- 
ous man,  you  have  courage,  a  good  man,  a  man  of  his 
honour,  O  yes,  it  is  true,  I  see  it,  I  feel  it,  and  so  she 
will  not  be  torn  away  from  you  now.  I  understanB^ 
that,  she  is  no  longer  a  child." 

Madame  rose  and  took  him  by  the  arm.  "Marry 
her,  my  friend!  Do  not  you  see?  I  can  leave  her  to 
you.  Marry  her  at  once,  marry  her !"  She  stood  as 
if  it  were  something  that  could  be  done  on  the  spot,  as 
easy  as  giving  one  a  cup  of  tea.  But  he  did  not  hesi- 
tate. 

"Why,  I  would  give  my  soul  to  do  it !"  he  cried, 
and  rushed  away  down  the  stairs  to  Julia. 

And  surely  she  was  as  wise  as  she  was  beautiful, 
and  as  rich  as  she  was  wise. 


THE  TRUMPETERS 


THE  TRUMPETERS 

THEY  were  crossing  the  Irish  Sea.  It 
was  night,  blowing  a  moderate  gale, 
but  the  moon,  aloft  on  the  port  bow 
with  a  wind,  was  chock  full  of  such  astounding 
brightness  that  the  turmoil  of  the  dark  waves  was  easy 
and  beautiful  to  see.  The  boat  was  crowded  with 
soldiers  on  leave ;  the  few  civilian  passengers — mechan- 
ics, labourers,  and  a  miner  going  to  his  home  in  Wex- 
ford, who  had  got  drunk  at  the  harbour  inn  before 
coming  aboard — were  congregated  in  the  angles  on  the 
lee-side  of  the  saloon  bunks  and  trying  to  sleep  amid 
the  chill  seething,  roaring,  and  thudding.  The  miner, 
young,  powerful,  and  very  much  at  his  ease,  sprawled 
among  them  intoxicated.  He  sang,  and  continued  to 
sing  at  intervals,  a  song  about  "The  hat  that  my  father 
wore,"  swaying,  with  large  dreamy  gestures,  to  and  fro, 
round  and  about,  up  and  down  upon  the  unfortunate 
men  sitting  to  right  and  left  of  him.  Close  at  hand 
sat  another  young  man,  but  smaller,  who  carried  a  big 
brass  trumpet. 

"Throw  him  in  the  sea,  why  not,  now!"  the  trum- 
peter shouted  to  the  drunken  man's  weary  supporters. 
"Begad  I  would  do  it  if  he  put  his  pig's  face  on  e'er 

141 


142  THE  TRUMPETERS 

a  shoulder  of  me !"  He  was  a  small,  emphatic  young 
man:  "Give  him  a  crack  now,  and  lay  on  him,  or  by 
the  tears  of  God  we'll  get  no  repose  at  all !" 

His  advice  was  tendered  as  constantly  and  as  insist- 
ently as  the  miner's  song  about  his  parent's  headgear, 
and  he  would  encourage  these  incitements  to  vicarious 
violence  by  putting  the  brass  trumpet  to  his  lips  and 
blowing  some  bitter  and  not  very  accurate  staves.  So 
bitter  and  so  inaccurate  that  at  length  even  the  drunken 
miner  paused  in  his  song  and  directed  the  trumpeter 
to  "shut  up."  The  little  man  sprang  to  his  feet  in  fury, 
and  approaching  the  other  he  poured  a  succession  of 
trumpet  calls  close  into  his  face.  This  threw  the  miner 
into  a  deep  sleep,  a  result  so  unexpected  that  the  en- 
raged trumpeter  slung  his  instrument  under  his  arm 
and  pranced  belligerently  upon  the  deck. 

"Come  out  o'  that,  ye  drunken  matchbox,  and  by 
the  Queen  of  Heaven  I'll  teach  ye!     Come  now!" 

The  miner  momentarily  raised  himself  and  re-com- 
menced his  song :  "  'Tis  the  Hat  that  me  Father  wore !" 
At  this  the  trumpeter  fetched  him  a  mighty  slap  across 
the  face. 

"Ah,  go  away,"  groaned  the  miner,  "or  I'll  be  sick  on 
ye." 

"Try  it,  ye  rotten  gossoon!  ye  filthy  matchbox! 
Where's  yer  kharkeef" 

The  miner  could  display  no  khaki;  indeed,  he  was 
sleeping  deeply  again. 

"I'm  a  man  o'  me  principles,  ye  rotten  matchbox!" 
yelled  the  trumpeter.  "In  the  Munsters  I  was  .  .  . 
seven  years  .  .  .  where's  your  kharkeef" 


THE  TRUMPETERS  1 43 

He  seized  the  miner  by  the  collar  and  shook  that 
part  of  the  steamer  into  a  new  commotion  until  he  was 
collared  by  the  sailors  and  kicked  up  on  to  the  fore- 
deck. 

Nothing  up  there,  not  even  his  futile  trumpeting, 
could  disturb  the  chill  rejoicing  beauty  of  the  night. 
The  wind  increased,  but  the  moonlight  was  bland  and 
reassuring.  Often  the  cope  of  some  tall  wave  would 
plunge  dully  over  the  bows,  filling  the  deck  with  water 
that  floundered  foaming  with  the  ship's  movement  or 
dribbled  back  through  the  scuppers  into  the  sea.  Yet 
there  was  no  menace  in  the  dark  wandering  water ;  each 
wave  tossed  back  from  its  neck  a  wreath  of  foam  that 
slewed  like  milk  across  the  breast  of  its  follower. 

The  trumpeter  sat  upon  a  heap  of  ropes  beside  a  big 
soldier. 

"The  rotten  matchbox,  did  ye  ever  see  the  like  o' 
that?  I'll  kill  him  against  the  first  thing  we  ste^ 
ashore,  like  ye  would  a  flea!" 

"Re  aisy,"  said  the  soldier;  "why  are  ye  making 
trouble  at  all?     Have  ye  hurt  your  little  finger?" 

"Trouble,  is  it?  What  way  would  I  be  making 
trouble  in  this  world?"  exclaimed  the  trumpeter. 
"Isn't  it  the  world  itself  as  puts  trouble  on  ye,  so  it 
is,  like  a  wild  cat  sitting  under  a  tub  of  unction !  O, 
very  pleasant  it  is,  O  ay!  No,  no,  my  little  sojee,  that 
is  not  it  at  all.  You  can't  let  the  flaming  world  rusTi 
beyant  ye  like  that.  .  .  ." 

"Well,  it's  a  quiet  life  I'm  seeking."  interjected  the 
soldier,  wrapping  his  great  coat  comfortingly  across  his 
breast,  "and  by  this  and  by  that,  a  quiet  night  too." 


144  T^^  TRUMPETERS 

"Is  that  so?  Quiet,  is  it?  But  I  say,  my  little 
sojee,  you'll  not  get  it  at  all  and  the  whole  flaming  world 
whickering  at  ye  like  a  mad  cracker  itself.  Would  ye 
sleep  on  that  wid  yer  quiet  life  and  all?  It's  to 
tame  life  you'd  be  doing,  like  it  was  a  tiger.  And 
it's  no  drunken  boozer  can  tame  me  as  was  with  the 
Munsters  in  the  East  .  .  .  for  seven  holy  years." 

"Ah,  go  ofif  wid  you,  you've  hurt  your  little  finger." 

"Me  little  finger,  is  it?"  cried  the  trumpeter,  hold- 
ing his  thin  hands  up  for  inspection  in  the  moonlight, 
"I  have  not  then." 

"You  surprise  me,"  the  soldier  said,  gazing  at  him 
with  sleepy  amused  tolerance.  "Did  you  never  hear 
of  Tobin  the  smith  and  Mary  of  Cappoquin  ?" 

"I  did  not  then,"  snapped  the  other.  "Who  was 
they?" 

"He  was  a  roaring,  fatal  feller,  a  holy  terror,  a  giant. 
He  lived  in  the  mountains  but  he  went  over  the  coun- 
try killing  things — a  tiger  or  two  at  an  odd  time,  I'm 
thinking — and  destroying  the  neat  condition  of  the 
world.     And  he  had  a  nasty  little  bit  of  a  bugle.  .      ." 

"Was  it  the  like  o'  that?"  demanded  the  other,  hold- 
ing out  the  trumpet  and  tapping  it  with  his  fingers. 

"  'A  bugle,'  I  said,"  replied  the  soldier  sternly,  "and 
every  time  he  pufifed  in  its  tubes  the  noise  of  it  was 
so  severe  the  hens  in  the  town  fell  dead.  .  .  ." 

"The  hens !" 

"Yes,  and  the  ducks  on  the  ponds  were  overcome 
with  emotion  and  sank  to  the  bottom.  One  day  he 
was  in  his  forge  driving  a  few  nails  into  the  shoe  of 


THE  TRUMPETERS  145 

an  ass  when  he  hit  his  Httle  finger  such  a  blow,  a  ter- 
rible blow,  that  it  bled  for  a  day.  Then  he  seared  the 
wound  with  his  searing  iron,  but  it  was  no  better,  and 
it  bled  for  a  night,  I  will  go — says  he — to  the  physi- 
cian of  Cappoquin  and  be  sewn  up  with  some  golden 
wire.  So  he  drove  into  Cappoquin,  but  when  he  was 
in  it  the  physician  was  gone  to  a  christening;  there 
was  only  his  daughter  Mary  left  to  attend  to  him,  a 
bright  good  girl  entirely,  and  when  she  saw  the  finger 
she  said  to  Tobin:  'I  declare  on  my  soul  if  I  don't 
chop  it  off  it's  not  long  till  you  have  your  death.' 
'Chop  it  ofif,  then,'  says  Tobin,  and  she  did  so.  He 
came  back  the  next  day  and  this  is  how  it  was ;  the 
physician  was  gone  to  a  wake.  'What's  your  need?' 
asked  Mary.  He  showed  her  his  hand  and  it  dripping 
with  blood.  'I  declare  to  my  God,'  said  Mary,  'if  I 
don't  chop  it  off  it's  short  till  you  have  your  death.' 
'Chop  it  off,'  says  Tobin,  and  she  struck  off  the  hand. 
The  day  after  that  he  drove  in  again,  but  the  physician 
was  gone  to  an  inquest  about  a  little  matter  concerning 
some  remains  that  had  been  found.  'What  is  it  today, 
Tobin?'  and  he  showed  her  his  arm  bleeding  in  great 
drops.  'I  declare  by  the  saints,'  says  she,  'that  unless 
I  chop  it  off  you'll  die  in  five  minutes.'  'Chop  it  off,' 
says  Tobin,  and  she  struck  off  his  arm.  The  next  day 
he  was  back  again  with  the  stump  of  his  arm  worse 
than  before.  'Oh,  I  see  what  it  is,'  said  Mary,  and  go- 
ing behind  him  she  struck  off  his  head  with  one  blow  of 
her  father's  sharp  knife  and  gave  it  to  the  cat." 
"That  is  a  neat  tale,"  said  the  trumpeter.     "Did  you 


146  THE  TRUMPETERS 

hear  the  story  of  the  dirty  soldier  and  the  drummer?" 

"No — "  The  soldier  hesitated  reflectively.  "No,  I 
never  heard  it." 

"Well,  this  is  how  it  was  .  .  ." 

But  just  then  the  steamer  began  to  approach  the  har- 
bour, and  in  the  hurry  and  scurry  of  preparations  to 
land  the  two  friends  were  separated  and  the  tale  was 
never  told. 

At  the  disembarkation  passengers  and  soldiers 
crowded  on  the  pier  awaiting  the  boat  train.  The  har- 
bour was  full  of  lights;  the  moon  was  still  high  in  the 
heavens,  but  her  glory  faded  as  the  sun  began  to  rise. 
The  thick  densities  of  the  night  sky  quivered  into  frail 
blues,  violet  and  silver  were  mingled  in  the  sea,  the 
buildings  on  the  wharf  looked  strange ;  icily,  bitterly 
grey.  The  trumpeter  ran  about  in  the  bleak  air  seek- 
ing the  "rotten  matchbox,"  but  he  could  not  find  him. 
He  comforted  himself  by  executing  some  castigating 
blares  upon  his  instrument.  The  hollow  wharves  and 
the  pier  staging  echoed  with  acrid  sound  that  pleased 
his  simple  heart.  He  blew  and  blew  and  blew  until  he 
was  surrounded  by  people  watching  him  strain  his 
determined  eyes  and  inflate  his  pale  cheeks — all  of  them 
secretly  hoping  that  the  ones  might  fall  out  or  the 
others  might  crack.  Suddenly  he  caught  sight  of  the 
now-sobered  miner,  quite  close  to  him,  almost  touching 
him !  The  call  he  was  blowing  faded  with  a  stupid 
squeak.  The  world  began  to  flame  again  .  .  .  when 
an  officer  burst  into  the  circle,  demanding  to  know  who 
he  was,  where  from,  and  what  in  all  the  realm  of  bias- 


THE  TRUMPETERS  147 

phemous  things  he  meant  hy  toothng  in  that  infernal 
manner  on  that  infernal  thing. 

The  trumpeter  drew  himself  proudly  to  attention 
and  saluted. 

"Discharged  I  am,  sir,  it's  with  the  Munsters  I  was, 
seven  years,  sir,  with  the  Munsters,  in  the  east." 

"You  disgrace  the  Army!  If  I  hear  another 
tootle  on  that  thing,  I  ...  I'll  have  you  clapped  in 
irons — I  will!  And  .  .  .  and  transported  .  .  .  damn 
me  if  I  don't!     You  understand?" 

The  trumpeter  meekly  saluted  as  the  captain  swag- 
gered away.  At  that  moment  the  miner  laid  his  hand 
upon  his  arm. 

"What,  my  little  man,"  said  he,  "have  you  lost  your 
teeth?     Give  it  me  now  I" 

And  putting  the  trumpet  to  his  own  lips  he  hlew  a 
Ijrilliant  and  mocking  reveille,  whose  echoes  hurtled  far 
over  the  harbour  and  into  the  neighbouring  hills. 

"God  save  us !"  cried  the  trumpeter  with  a  furtive 
eye  on  the  captain  at  the  end  of  the  platform,  who  did 
not  appear  to  have  heard  that  miraculous  salvo,  "it's  a 
great  grand  breath  you've  got,  sir." 


THE  ANGEL  AND  THE  SWEEP 


THE  ANGEL  AND  THE  SWEEP 

I'D  been  sitting  in  the  Axe  &  Cleaver  along  of 
Mrs.  Pellegrini  for  an  hour  at  least ;  I  hadn't 
seen  her  in  five  years  since  she  was  doing  the 
roads  near  Pontypool.  An  hour  at  least,  for  isn't  the 
Axe  &  Cleaver  the  pleasant  kind  of  place  ?  Talking  or 
not  talking  you  can  always  hear  the  water  lashing  from 
the  outfall  above  Ilinney  Lock,  the  sound  of  it  making 
you  feel  drowsy  and  kind.  And  isn't  the  old  bridge 
there  a  thing  to  be  looking  at  indeed? 

Mrs.  Pellegrini  had  a  family  of  pikeys  who  traded  in 
horses,  willow-wattles,  and  rocksalt;  she  was  as  cun- 
ning as  a  jacksnipe,  and  if  she  had  a  deep  voice  like  a 
man  she  was  full  of  wisdom.  A  grand  great  woman 
was  Rosa  Pellegrini,  with  a  face  silky-brown  like  a 
beechnut,  and  eyes  and  hair  the  equal  of  a  rook  for 
darkness.  The  abundance  of  jewellery  hooked  and 
threaded  upon  her  was  something  to  be  looking  at  too. 
Old  man  and  young  Isaac  kept  going  out  to  look  at 
the  horses,  or  they'd  be  coming  in  to  upbraid  her  for 
delaying,  but  she  could  drink  a  sconce  of  beer  without 
the  least  sparkle  of  hilarity,  as  if  it  were  a  tribute  she 
owed  her  whole  magnificent  constitution,  or  at  least  a 
reward   for  some  part  of   it.     So  she  kept  doing  it, 

151 


152  THE  ANGEL  AND  THE  SWEEP 

while  her  son  and  her  husband  could  do  no  other  and 
did  it  with  nothing  of  her  inevitable  air. 

Well,  I  was  sitting  in  the  A.ve  &  Cleaver  along  of 
Mrs,  Pellegrini  when  who  should  rove  in  but  Larry 
McCall,  good-looking  Larry,  bringing  a  friend  with 
him,  a  soft  kind  of  fellow  who'd  a  harsh  voice  and  a 
whining  voice  that  we  didn't  like  the  noise  of  tho'  he 
had  good  money  in  his  purse.  Larry  gave  me  the 
grace  of  the  day  directly  he  entered  the  door,  and  then, 
letting  a  cry  of  joy  out  of  him,  he'd  kissed  Mrs.  Pelle- 
grini many  times  before  she  knew  what  was  happening 
to  her.  She  got  up  and  punished  him  with  a  welt  on 
his  chin  that  would  have  bruised  an  oak-tree,  and  bade 
him  behave  himself.  He  sat  down  soothingly  beside 
her  and  behaved  very  well.  His  companion  stood 
very  shy  and  nervous,  like  a  kitten  might  be  watching 
a  cockfight. 

"Who  is  this  young  man?"  Mrs.  Pellegrini  asks. 

"That's  Arthur,"  said  Larry:  "I  forget  what 
Arthur  knocks  a  living  out  of — I've  known  him  but 
these  three  bits  of  an  hour  since  we  were  walking  in  the 
one  direction." 

"My  dad,"  said  Arthur  slowly  and  raspingly,  "is  an 
undertaker,  and  he  lets  me  help  him  in  his  business: 
we  bury  people." 

"Oh  come,  young  man,"  said  Mrs.  Pellegrini,  "that's 
no  sort  of  a  trade  at  all — d'ye  think  it,  Mr.  McCall?" 

"No,  I  do  not,"  replied  Larry,  "but  Arthur  does. 
It  don't  seem  to  be  a  trade  with  very  much  humour  in 
it.     Life  ain't  a  sad  solid  chunk." 


THE  ANGEL  AND  THE  SWEEP  153 

"Now  that's  just  where  you're  wrong,"  drawled 
Arthur. 

"  'Tain't  a  hfe  at  all,"  Rosa  interrupted  severely,  "it's 
only  sniffing,  having  a  bad  cold!  No  sort  of  a  life  at 
all— d'ye  think  it,  Mr.  IMcCall?" 

"No,  I  do  not,"  said  Larry  with  a  chuckle,  "but 
Arthur  does !" 

"Oh,  I  know  what  you're  a  deluding  on,"  commenced 
the  young  man  again,  "but.  .  .  ." 

"Strike  me  dead  if  I  can  see  any  fun  in  funerals!" 
Mrs.  Pellegrini  said  with  finalit}',  taking  up  her  mug. 
"But  if  you  7vill  have  your  grief,  young  man,"  she 
added,  pausing  in  one  of  her  gulps  to  gaze  at  Arthur 
until  he  quivered,  "you  must  have  it,  and  may  fortune 
fall  in  love  with  what  we  like.     Fill  up  that  cup  now !" 

The  young  man  in  agitation  obeyed,  and  while  this 
was  doing  we  all  heard  someone  come  over  the  bridge 
singing  a  song,  and  that  was  Jerry  Ogwin,  who  could 
tell  the  neatest  tales  and  sing  the  littlest  songs.  Well, 
there  were  great  salutations,  for  we  all  knew  Jerrv  and 
loved  Jerry,  and  he  loved  some  of  us.  But  he  was  the 
fiercest  looking,  fieriest  gipsy  man  you  ever  saw,  and 
he  had  all  the  gullible  prescience  of  a  cockney. 

"My  fortune !  Where  are  you  from,  you  cunning 
little  man?" 

"I  bin  doing  a  bit  o'  road  down  Kent  and  London 
way.     D'ye  know  Lewisham?"  commenced  Jerry. 

"No,"  said  Larry,  grinning  at  me,  "but  Arthur 
does !" 

"No,  I  don't;  I  never  been  there,"  chanted  Arthur. 


154  THE  ANGEL  AND  THE  SWEEP 

"Now  what's  the  good  of  talking  like  that!"  said 
McCall  sternly,  and  letting  a  wink  at  me. 

"More  I  ain't,"  asserted  Arthur. 

"Then  I  was  at  Deptford  and  Greenwich — know 
Greenwich?"  continued  Jerry. 

"No,"  replied  Larry,  then  adding  nonchalantly, 
"Arthur  does." 

"No,  I  don't,  I  don't,"  said  Arthur  wormily,  for 
Jerry  was  glaring  at  him,  and  that  fighting  scar 
all  down  his  nose,  where  his  wife  Katey  once  hit  him 
with  the  spout  of  a  kettle,  was  very  disturbing. 

"What's  the  good  of  that?"  urged  the  devilish- 
minded  Larry.  "Why  don't  you  talk  to  the  gentleman, 
you  don't  want  to  vex  him,  do  you?" 

"You  ain't  blooming  silly,  are  you?"  queried  Jerry. 

Without  waiting  for  reply  he  drifted  off  again. 

"Me  and  my  mate  was  doing  a  bit  o'  road  with 
oranges  and  things,  you  know — three  for  a  'eaver — 
down  Mary's  Cray;  d'ye  know  Mary's  Cray?" 

But  this  time  Arthur  was  looking  avidly  out  of  the 
window. 

"Well,  we  was  'avin'  a  bit  of  grub  one  night,  just 
about  dark  it  was,  yon  know,  with  a  little  fire,  we'd  bin 
cookin'  something,  when  a  blooming  sweep  come  along. 
I'll  tell  it  to  you ;  it  was  just  inside  a  bit  of  a  wood  and 
we  was  sleeping  rough.  My  mate  was  a  bit  nervous, 
yon  know,  'e  kept  looking  round  as  if  'e  could  see  some- 
thing, but  it  was  that  dark  you  might  be  looking  in  a 
sack.  I  says  to  Timmy :  what's  up  with  you  r^  I 
dunno,  'e  says,  something  going  on,  and  just  as  'e  says 
that  this  blooming  sweep  'oofs  in  from  nowhere  and 


THE  ANGEL  AND  THE  SWEEP  1 55 

falls  over  our  beer.  I  says  to  Timmy,  'e's  knocked 
over  our  beer;  are  you  going  to  fight  'im  or  shall  I? 
And  Timmy  shouts:  look  at  'im,  'e's  laying  "on  the 
fire!  And  s'elp  me  God  so  'e  was,  'is  legs  was  in  the 
sticks  and  'is  trousers  was  a-burning.  Come  out  of 
it,  we  says,  but  'e  didn't  move.  No,  my  oath,  'e  layed 
there  like  a  dead  sheep.  Well,  we  pulled  'im  off  it, 
but  'e  was  like  a  silly  bloke,  'E  couldn't  stand  up  and 
'e  couldn't  say  anything.  'E  got  a  lot  of  froth  round 
'is  mouth  like  a  'orse  that's  going  wicked.  And  'e 
wasn't  drunk,  neither,  but,  yoii  know,  'e  was  just 
frightened  out  of  'is  life  about  something.  We  sit 
'im  down  with  'is  back  against  a  tree  and  made  the 
fire  up  again.  What's  the  matter  with  you,  we  says; 
you  got  a  fit,  we  says;  what  d'ye  want  coming  'ere, 
we  says?  But  we  couldn't  get  no  answer  from  'im. 
'Is  face  was  that  dam  white  'cept  where  it  was  smudged 
with  soot,  and  there  was  this  froth  dribbling  on  'im,  and 
what  d'yer  think,  'e'd  got  a  red  rose  stuck  in  'is  button- 
'ole.  'E  was  a  horrible  sight ;  we  couldn't  bear  'im.  so 
we  picks  'im  up,  and  Tinmiy  give  'im  a  clout  in  the 
ear  and  shoves  'im  out  among  some  bushes  where  we 
couldn't  see  'im.  Sw'elp  me  if  'e  didn't  come  crawling 
back  on  'is  hands  and  knees  where  we  was  sitting 
round  the  fire.  Oh,  'e  was  horrible.  Timmy  went 
nearly  daft  and  I  thought  'e  was  going  to  give  'im  one 
good  kick  in  the  mouth  and  finish  'im.  'Stead  of  that 
we  picks  'im  up  again  and  runs  'im  further  down  the 
wood  and  heaves  'im  into  some  blackberry  bushes  and 
tells  'im  what  we'd  do  to  'im  if  'e  come  again.  That 
was  no  good ;  in  five  minutes  'e  crawled  back.     Timmv 


156  THE  ANGEL  AND  THE  SWEEP 

was  shaking  like  a  dog,  and  fell  on  'im  as  if  'e  was  go- 
ing to  strangle  'im,  but  we  had  to  let  'im  stay,  and  old 
Timmy  was  blacker  than  the  sweep  when  'e'd  done 
with  'im.  But  the  bloke  wouldn't  say  nothing  or  open 
'is  eyes,  you  know,  he  wouldn't  open  his  eyes,  'e  was 
like  something  what  had  been  murdered  and  wouldn't 
die,  if  you  know  what  I  mean.  Blast  'im,  I  could  kill 
'im,  Timmy  says.  That's  no  good  of,  says  I,  and  at 
last  we  left  'im  'side  the  fire,  and  we  went  off  some- 
where just  outside  the  wood  and  packed  up  in  a  clump 
of  ur-grass.  I  went  to  sleep,  but  I  don't  believe  old 
Timmy  did,  well,  I  know  'e  didn't.  Now  we  hadn't 
'card  nothing  all  night,  nothing  at  all,  but  when  I  wakes 
up  in  the  morning  the  blooming  sweep  was  gone  and 
not  a  chink  of  'im  left  anywhere,  But,'^  said  Jerry 
impressively  to  Arthur,  who  eyed  him  with  horror, 
"we  found  something  else!"  There  was  silence  while 
Jerry's  face  was  connected  to  his  mug  of  beer.  No- 
body spoke.  We  eyed  him  with  eager  interest.  He 
vanquished  his  thirst  and  smacked  his  lips  but  held  the 
mug  in  readiness  for  further  libation. 

"Not  twenty  chain  away  a  woman  was  laying  down. 
Timmy  touches  me  frightened  like  and  says.  Look, 
what's  that?  My  eyes  was  nearly  skinned  out  of  me. 
I  couldn't  speak.  We  walked  quietly  up  to  'er  like  two 
sick  men.  She  lay  there  just  as  if  she'd  dropped  out 
of  the  sky,  naked  as  an  angel,  not  a  shift  nor  a  stock- 
ing, not  a  button  on  'er."  There  was  again  silence 
until  Larry  struck  a  match  loudly  on  a  jar,  his  pipe, 
hooked  tightly  in  his  forefinger,  having  gone  out,  Mrs, 
Pellegrini  stared,  and  breathed  audibly,     "And,"  said 


THE  ANGEL  AND  THE  SWEEP  157 

Jerry  impressively,  "she  was  the  grandest  creature 
what  ever  you  see.  I  touched  'er  with  them 
two  fingers  and  she  was  cold  as  iron,  stiff,  gone  a  bit 
dull  like  pearls  look,  but  the  fine  build  of  that  lady  was 
the  world's  wonder.  There  was  not  a  scratch  or  a 
wound  on  'er  or  the  sign  of  'er  death  anywhere.  One 
of  'er  legs  was  cocked  up  at  the  knee  like  she'd  lay  in 
bed.  'Er  two  eyes  was  just  looking  at  the  ground  and 
there  was  a  kind  of  funny  smile  on  'er  face.  Fine 
long  hair  she  had,  black  as  a  cat's  back  and  long  as  the 
tail  of  a  horse.  And  in  it  there  was  a  red  rose,  and  in 
one  of  'er  hands  she  was  holding  a  white  lily.  There 
was  a  little  bird's  dropping  on  'er  stomach.  I  wiped 
it  off.  I  says  to  Timmy:  That  sweep!  And  'e  says 
to  me,  Jerry  Ogwin,  we're  'aving  a  share  out.  What 
about  that  sweep  I  says  to  'im,  but  all  'e  says  was: 
we're  'aving  a  share  out.  'E  was  afraid  of  getting 
pulled  for  this  job,  you  know.  I  never  seen  a  man  so 
frightened  afore,  and  'e  was  not  a  chap  as  renagged 
ever,  not  Timmy." 

"That  'e  wasn't,"  said  Mrs.  Pellegrini,  "I  seen  'im 
once  half  murder  two  sojers  for  beating  a  deaf  and 
dumb  man." 

"Well,"  continued  Jerry,  "I  says  all  right  Timmy, 
and  so  we  'as  a  share  out  and  gits  on  different  roads. 
My  share  was  a  clothes  basket  and  a  pair  of  spectacles 
cost  tuppence  ha'penny,  you  know,  and  I  walked  all 
that  day  as  'ard  as  ever  I  could.  Then  I  bushes  for  the 
night,  and  when  I  woke  up  nex'  morning  I  'card  some 
talking  going  on.  I  looks  under  tiie  'edge  and  found 
I  was  side  a  strawberry  field,  you  know,  a  lot  of  straw- 


158  THE  ANGEL  AND  THE  SWEEP 

berries.  So  I  'ops  in  and  sells  my  basket  to  the  straw- 
berry pickers  for  a  shilling.  They  give  me  a  shilling 
for  it,  so  that  was  all  right.  'Ad  a  shilling  and  a  pair 
of  spectacles  for  my  share  out.  I  goes  on  a  bit  and 
then  I  comes  across  a  beanfeast  party,  and  I  showed 
'em  my  pair  o'  gold  spectacles — I'd  just  found  'em — 
you  know!" 

Larry  burst  into  a  peal  of  laughter  that  seemed  to 
surprise  Jerry  and  he  said: 

"Ain't  you  ever  met  a  feller  what's  found  a  pair  of 
gold  spectacles?" 

Larry  couldn't  reply  and  Jerry  continued: 

"No,  ain't  you  really  ?  God,  what  a  laugh !  Yes, 
I  sells  'em  to  a  fly  young  party  for  two  and  f o'  pence 
and  off  I  goes.  Never  'card  no  more  of  Timmy. 
Never  'eard  no  more  of  anything.  I  dunno  if  they 
found  the  girl.  I  dunno  if  they  found  that  sweep. 
They  didn't  find  me." 

He  paused  for  a  moment. 

"They  didn't  find  me,"  he  repeated. 

There  was  silence  at  last;  the  room  was  getting  dim 
with  evening.     Mrs.  Pellegrini  spoke : 

"And  you  wiped  it  off  her  stomach,  did  you,  Jerry  ?" 

"I  did,"  said  he. 

Mrs.  Pellegrini  turned  to  Arthur  and  said  in  a  sharp 
voice : 

"Fill  that  pot  for  the  gentleman!" 

The  young  man  in  terror  obeyed,  he  exceedingly 
obeyed. 

When  the  last  pot  was  emptied  Jerry  and  Larry  and 
the  wretched  mute  went  off  along  the  road  together. 


THE  ANGEL  AND  THE  SWEEP  159 

Rosa  Pellegrini  said  "So  long"  to  me  and  drove  off 
with  her  cavalcade.  The  inn  was  empty  and  quiet  again 
so  you  could  hear  the  water  at  the  outfall. 

I  walked  along  the  hank  of  the  old  river  until  I  came 
to  the  lock  where  the  water  roaring  windily  from  the 
lasher  streamed  like  an  okl  man's  beard;  a  pair  of 
swans  moved  in  the  slack  water  of  the  pool.  Away 
there  was  a  fine  lea  of  timothy  grass  looking  as  soft 
as  wool.  And  at  the  end  of  the  lea  there  was  a  low 
long  hill  covered  with  trees  full  of  the  arriving  dark- 
ness ;  a  train  that  you  could  not  hear  the  noise  of  shot 
through  a  grove  and  poured  a  long  spool  of  white 
fume  upon  the  trees  quietly,  a  thing  to  be  looking  at, 
it  was  so  white  and  soft.  But  I  was  thinking  .  .  . 
thinking  .  .  .  thinking  of  the  grand  white  slim  woman 
who  did  not  seem  dead  at  all  to  mc,  lying  with  a  IHy 
in  her  hand,  a  red  rose  in  her  hair.  And  I  could  not 
think  it  to  be  true  at  all ;  I  believe  Jerry  was  only  tell- 
ing us  one  of  his  tales. 


ARABESQUE 


arabesque:  the  mouse 

IN  the  main  street  amongst  tall  establishments  of 
mart  and  worship  was  a  high  narrow  house 
pressed  between  a  coffee  factory  and  a  boot- 
maker's. It  had  four  flights  of  long  dim  echoing 
stairs,  and  at  the  top,  in  a  room  that  was  full  of  the 
smell  of  dried  apples  and  mice,  a  man  in  the  middle 
age  of  life  had  sat  reading  Russian  novels  until  he 
thought  he  was  mad.  Late  was  the  hour,  the  night  out- 
side black  and  freezing,  the  pavements  below  empty 
and  undistinguishable  when  he  closed  his  book  and  sat 
motionless  in  front  of  the  glowing  but  flameless  fire. 
He  felt  he  was  very  tired  yet  he  could  not  rest.  He 
stared  at  a  picture  ou  the  wall  until  he  wanted  to  cry ;  it 
was  a  colour  print  by  Utamaro  of  a  suckling  child 
caressing  its  mother's  breasts  as  she  sits  in  front  of  a 
blackbound  mirror.  \'ery  chaste  and  decorative  it  was, 
in  spite  of  its  curious  anatomy.  The  man  gazed,  empty 
of  sight  though  not  of  mind,  until  the  sighing  of  the 
gas  jet  maddened  him.  He  got  up,  i)ut  out  the  light, 
and  sat  down  again  in  the  darkness  trying  to  compose 
his  mind  before  the  comfort  of  the  fire.  And  he  was 
just  about  to  begin  a  conversation  witli  himself  when 
a  mouse  crept  from  a  hole  in  the  skirting  near  the  fire- 

163 


164  ARABESQUE 

place  and  scurried  into  the  fender.  The  man  had  the 
crude  dislike  for  such  sly  nocturnal  things,  but  this 
mouse  was  so  small  and  bright,  its  antics  so  pretty, 
that  he  drew  his  feet  carefully  from  the  fender  and  sat 
watching  it  almost  with  amusement.  The  mouse 
moved  along  the  shadows  of  the  fender,  out  upon  the 
hearth,  and  sat  before  the  glow,  rubbing  its  head,  ears, 
and  tiny  belly  with  its  paws  as  if  it  were  bathing  itself 
with  the  warmth,  until,  sharp  and  sudden,  the  fire  sank, 
an  ember  fell,  and  the  mouse  flashed  into  its  hole. 

The  man  reached  forward  to  the  mantelpiece  and  put 
his  hand  upon  a  pocket  lamp.  Turning  on  the  beam, 
he  opened  the  door  of  a  cupboard  beside  the  fireplace. 
Upon  one  of  the  shelves  there  was  a  small  trap  baited 
with  cheese,  a  trap  made  with  a  wire  spring,  one  of 
those  that  smashed  down  to  break  the  back  of  ingenu- 
ous and  unwary  mice. 

"Mean — so  mean,"  he  mused,  "to  appeal  to  the  hun- 
ger of  any  living  thing  just  in  order  to  destroy  it." 

He  picked  up  the  empty  trap  as  if  to  throw  it  in  the 
fire. 

"I  suppose  I  had  better  leave  it  though — the  place 
swarms  with  them."  He  still  hesitated.  "I  hope  that 
little  beastie  won't  go  and  do  anything  foolish."  He 
put  the  trap  back  quite  carefully,  closed  the  door  of  the 
cupboard,  sat  down  again  and  extinguished  the  lamp. 

Was  there  any  one  else  in  the  world  so  squeamish 
and  foolish  about  such  things !  Even  his  mother, 
mother  so  bright  and  beautiful,  even  she  had  laughed  at 
his  childish  horrors.  He  recalled  how  once  in  his 
childhood,  not  long  after  his  sister  Yosine  was  born,  a 


AR/\BESQUE  1 65 

friendly  neighbour  had  sent  him  home  with  a  bundle 
of  dead  larks  tied  by  the  feet  "for  supper."  The  pitiful 
inanimity  of  the  birds  had  brought  a  gush  of 
tears;  he  had  run  weeping  home  and  into  the  kitchen, 
and  there  he  had  found  the  strange  thing  doing.  It 
was  dusk;  mother  was  kneeling  before  the  fire.  He 
dropped  the  larks. 

"Mother!"  he  exclaimed  softly.  She  looked  at  his 
tearful  face. 

"What's  the  matter,  Filip?"  she  asked,  smiling  too 
at  his  astonishment. 

"Mother!     What  you  doing?" 

Her  bodice  was  open  and  she  was  squeezing  her 
breasts ;  long  thin  streams  of  milk  spurted  into  the  fire 
with  a  plunging  noise. 

"Weaning  your  little  sister,"  laughed  mother.  She 
took  his  inquisitive  face  and  pressed  it  against  the 
delicate  warmth  of  her  bosom,  and  he  forgot  the  dead 
birds  behind  him. 

"Let  me  do  it,  mother,"  he  cried,  and  doing  so  he 
discovered  the  throb  of  the  heart  in  his  mother's  breast. 
Wonderful  it  was  for  him  to  experience  it,  although 
she  could  not  explain  it  to  him. 

"Why  does  it  do  that?" 

"If  it  did  not  beat,  little  son,  I  should  die  and  the 
Holy  Father  would  take  me  from  you." 

"God?" 

She  nodded.  He  jnit  his  hand  upon  his  own  breast. 
"Oh  feel  it,  Mother!"  he  cried.  Mother  unbuttoned 
his  little  coat  and  felt  the  gentle  tick  tick  with  her  warm 
palm. 


1 66  ARABESQUE 

"Beautiful!"  she  said. 

"Is  it  a  good  one?" 

She  kissed  his  upsmiling  Hps.  "It  is  good  if  it  beats 
truly.  Let  it  always  beat  truly,  Filip,  let  it  always 
beat  truly." 

There  was  the  echo  of  a  sigh  in  her  voice,  and  he 
had  divined  some  grief,  for  he  was  very  wise.  He 
kissed  her  bosom  in  his  tiny  ecstasy  and  whispered 
soothingly:  "Little  mother!  little  mother!"  In  such 
joys  he  forgot  his  horror  of  the  dead  larks;  indeed  he 
helped  mother  to  pluck  them  and  spit  them  for  supper. 

It  was  a  black  day  that  succeeded,  and  full  of  tragedy 
for  the  child.  A  great  bay  horse  with  a  tawny  mane 
had  knocked  down  his  mother  in  the  lane,  and  a  heavy 
cart  had  passed  over  her,  crushing  both  her  hands.  She 
was  borne  away  moaning  with  anguish  to  the  surgeon 
who  cut  off  the  two  hands.  She  died  in  the  night. 
For  years  the  child's  dreams  were  filled  with  the  horror 
of  the  stumps  of  arms,  bleeding  unendingly.  Yet  he 
had  never  seen  them,  for  he  was  sleeping  when  she 
died. 

While  this  old  woe  was  come  vividly  before  him  he 
again  became  aware  of  the  mouse.  His  nerves 
stretched  upon  him  in  repulsion,  but  he  soon  relaxed 
to  a  tolerant  interest,  for  it  was  really  a  most  engaging 
little  mouse.  It  moved  with  curious  staccato  scurries, 
stopping  to  rub  its  head  or  flicker  with  its  ears;  they 
seemed  almost  transparent  ears.  It  spied  a  red  cind' 
and  skipped  innocently  up  to  it  .  .  .  snififing  .  .  . 
snififing  .  .  .  until  it  jumped  back  scorched.  It  would 
crouch  as  a  cat  does,  blinking  in  the  warmth,  or  scamper 


AIL^BESQUE  167 

madly  as  if  dancing,  and  then  roll  upon  its  side  rubbing 
its  head  with  those  pliant  paws.  The  melancholy  man 
watched  it  until  it  came  at  last  to  rest  and  squatted 
meditatively  upon  its  haunches,  hunched  up,  looking 
curiously  wise,  a  pennyworth  of  philosophy;  then  once 
more  the  coals  sank  with  a  rattle  and  again  the  mouse 
was  gone. 

The  man  sat  on  before  the  fire  and  his  mind  filled 
again  with  unaccountable  sadness.  He  had  grown  into 
manhood  with  a  burning  generosity  of  spirit  and  rifts 
of  rebellion  in  him  that  proved  too  exacting  for  his 
fellows  and  seemed  mere  wantonness  to  men  of  casual 
rectitudes.  "J'-^stice  and  Sin,"  he  would  cry,  "Property 
and  Virtue — incompatibilities !  There  can  be  no  sin 
in  a  world  of  justice,  no  property  in  a  world  of  virtue!" 
With  an  engaging  extravagance  and  a  certain  clear- 
eyed  honesty  of  mind  he  had  put  his  two  and  two  to- 
gether and  seemed  then  to  rejoice,  as  in  some  topsy- 
turvy dream,  in  having  rendered  unto  Caesar,  as  you 
might  say,  the  things  that  were  due  to  Napoleon !  But 
this  kind  of  thing  could  not  pass  unexpiated  in  a 
world  of  men  having  an  infinite  regard  for  Property 
and  a  pride  in  their  traditions  of  Virtue  and  Justice. 
They  could  indeed  forgive  him  his  sins  but  they  could 
not  forgive  him  his  compassions.  So  he  had  to  go  seek 
for  more  melodious-minded  men  and  fair  unambiguous 
women.  But  rebuflfs  can  deal  more  deadly  blows  than 
daggers;  he  became  timid — a  timidity  not  of  fear  but 
of  pride — and  grew  with  the  years  into  misanthropy, 
susceptible  to  trivial  griefs  and  despairs,  a  vessel  of 
emotion  that  emptied  as  easily  as  it  filled,  until  he  came 


1 68  ARABESQUE 

at  last  to  know  that  his  griefs  were  half  deliberate,  his 
despairs  half  unreal,  and  to  live  but  for  beauty — which 
is  tranquillity — to  put  her  wooing  hand  upon  him. 

Now,  while  the  mouse  hunts  in  the  cupboard,  one 
fair  recollection  stirs  in  the  man's  mind — of  Cassia  and 
the  harmony  of  their  only  meeting.  Cassia  who  had 
such  rich  red  hair,  and  eyes,  yes,  her  eyes  were  full  of 
starry  enquiry  like  the  eyes  of  mice.  It  was  so  long 
ago  that  he  had  forgotten  how  he  came  to  be  in  it,  that 
unaccustomed  orbit  of  vain  vivid  things — a  village 
festival,  all  oranges  and  houp-la.  He  could  not  remem- 
ber how  he  came  to  be  there,  but  at  night,  in  the  court 
hall,  he  had  danced  with  Cassia — fair  and  unambiguous 
indeed ! — who  had  come  like  the  wind  from  among  the 
roses  and  swept  into  his  heart. 

"It  is  easy  to  guess,"  he  had  said  to  her,  "what  you 
like  most  in  the  world." 

She  laughed;  "To  dance?    Yes,  and  you  .  .  .   ?" 

"To  find  a  friend." 

"I  know,  I  know,"  she  cried,  caressing  him  with 
recognitions.  "Ah,  at  times  I  quite  love  my  friends — 
until  I  begin  to  wonder  how  much  they  hate  me!" 

He  had  loved  at  once  that  cool  pale  face,  the  abun- 
dance of  her  strange  hair  as  light  as  the  autumn's  clus- 
tered bronze,  her  lilac  dress  and  all  the  sweetness  about 
her  like  a  bush  of  lilies.  How  they  had  laughed  at  the 
two  old  peasants  whom  they  had  overheard  gabbling 
of  trifles  like  sickness  and  appetite! 

"There's  a  lot  of  nature  in  a  parsnip,"  said  one,  a 
fat  person  of  the  kind  that  swells  grossly  when  stung  by 


ARABESQUE  1 69 

a  bee,  "a  lot  of  nature  when  it's  young,  but  when  it's 
old  it's  like  everything  else." 

"True  it  is." 

"And  I'm  very  fond  of  vegetables,  yes,  and  I'm  very 
fond  of  bread." 

"Come  out  with  me,"  whispered  Cassia  to  Filip,  and 
they  walked  out  in  the  blackness  of  midnight  into  what 
must  have  been  a  garden. 

"Cool  it  is  here,"  she  said,  "and  quiet,  but  too  dark 
even  to  see  your  face — can  you  see  mine?" 

"The  moon  will  not  rise  until  after  dawn,"  said  he, 
"it  will  be  white  in  the  sky  when  the  starlings  whistle 
in  your  chimney." 

They  walked  silently  and  warily  about  until  they 
felt  the  chill  of  the  air.  A  dull  echo  of  the  music  came 
to  them  through  the  walls,  then  stopped,  and  they  heard 
the  bark  of  a  fox  away  in  the  woods. 

"You  are  cold,"  he  whispered,  touching  her  bare 
neck  with  timid  fingers.  "Quite,  quite  cold,"  drawing 
his  hand  tenderly  over  the  curves  of  her  chin  and  face. 
"Let  us  go  in,"  he  said,  moving  with  discretion  from  the 
rapture  he  desired.  "We  will  come  out  again,"  said 
Cassia. 

But  within  the  room  the  ball  was  just  at  an  end,  the 
musicians  were  packing  up  their  instruments  and  the 
dancers  were  flocking  out  and  homewards,  or  to  the 
buffet  which  was  on  a  platform  at  one  end  of  the  room. 
The  two  old  peasants  were  there,  munching  hugely. 

"I  tell  you,"  said  one  of  them,  "there's  nothing  in 
the  world  for  it  but  the  grease  of  an  owl's  liver.     That's 


170  ARABESQUE 

it,  that's  it!  Take  something  on  your  stomach  now, 
just  to  offset  the  chill  of  the  dawn !" 

Filip  and  Cassia  were  beside  them,  but  there  were  so 
many  people  crowding  the  platform  that  Filip  had  to 
jump  down.  He  stood  then  looking  up  adoringly  at 
Cassia,  who  had  pulled  a  purple  cloak  around  her. 

"For  Filip,  Filip,  Filip,"  she  said,  pushing  the  last 
bite  of  her  sandwich  into  his  mouth,  and  pressing  upon 
him  her  glass  of  Loupiac.  Quickly  he  drank  it  with 
a  great  gesture,  and,  fiinging  the  glass  to  the  wall,  took 
Cassia  into  his  arms,  shouting:  "I'll  carry  you  home, 
the  whole  way  home,  yes,  Fll  carry  you !" 

"Put  me  down !"  she  cried,  beating  his  head  and  pull- 
ing his  ears,  as  they  passed  among  the  departing 
dancers.     "Put  me  down,  you  wild  thing !" 

Dark,  dark  was  the  lane  outside,  and  the  night  an 
obsidian  net,  into  which  he  walked  carrying  the  girl. 
But  her  arms  were  looped  around  him,  she  discovered 
paths  for  him,  clinging  more  tightly  as  he  staggered 
against  a  wall,  stumbled  upon  a  gulley,  or  when  her 
sweet  hair  was  caught  in  the  boughs  of  a  little  lime 
tree. 

"Do  not  loose  me,  Filip,  will  you,  do  not  loose  me," 
Cassia  said,  putting  her  lips  against  his  temple. 

His  brain  seemed  bursting,  his  heart  rocked  within 
him,  but  he  adored  the  rich  grace  of  her  limbs  against 
his  breast.  "Here  it  is,"  she  murmured,  and  he  carried 
her  into  a  path  that  led  to  her  home  in  a  little  lawned 
garden  where  the  smell  of  ripe  apples  upon  the  branches 
and  the  heavy  lustre  of  roses  stole  upon  the  air.  Roses 
and  apples !     Roses  and  apples !     He  carried  her  right 


ARABESQUE  171 

into  the  porch  hefore  she  sHcl  down  and  stood  close  to 
him  with  her  hands  still  upon  his  shoulders.  He  could 
breathe  happily  at  the  release,  standing  silent  and  look- 
ing round  at  the  sky  sprayed  with  wondrous  stars  but 
without  a  moon. 

"You  are  stronger  than  I  thought  you,  stronger  than 
you  look,  you  are  really  very  strong,"  she  whispered, 
nodding  her  head  to  him.  Opening  the  buttons  of  his 
coat  she  put  her  palm  against  his  breast. 

"Oh  how  your  heart  does  beat :  does  it  beat  truly — 
and  for  whom?" 

He  had  seized  her  wrists  in  a  little  fury  of  love,  cry- 
ing: "Little  mother,  little  mother!" 

"What  are  you  saying?"  asked  the  girl,  but  before 
he  could  continue  there  came  a  footstep  sounding  be- 
hind the  door,  and  the  clack  of  a  bolt.  .  .  . 

What  was  that?  Was  that  really  a  bolt  or  was  it 
.  .  .  was  it  .  .  .  the  snap  of  the  trap?  The  man  sat 
up  in  his  room  intently  listening,  with  nerves  quivering 
again,  waiting  for  the  trap  to  kill  the  little  philosopher. 
When  he  felt  it  was  all  over  he  reached  guardedly  in 
the  darkness  for  the  lantern,  turned  on  the  beam,  and 
opened  the  door  of  the  cupboard.  Focussing  the  light 
upon  the  trap  he  was  amazed  to  see  the  mouse  sitting  on 
its  haunches  before  it,  uncaught.  Its  head  was  bowed, 
but  its  bead-like  eyes  were  full  of  brightness,  and  it 
sat  blinking,  it  did  not  flee. 

"Shoosh!"  said  the  man,  but  the  mouse  did  not  move. 
"Why  doesn't  it  go?  Shoosh!"  he  said  again,  and 
suddenly  the  reason  of  the  mouse's  strange  behaviour 
was  made  clear.     The  trap  had  not  caught  it  completely, 


172  ARABESQUE 

but  it  had  broken  off  both  its  forefeet,  and  the  thing 
crouched  there  holding  out  its  two  bleeding  stumps 
humanly,  too  stricken  to  stir. 

Horror  flooded  the  man,  and  conquering  his  repug- 
nance he  plucked  the  mouse  up  quickly  by  the  neck. 
Immediately  the  little  thing  fastened  its  teeth  in  his 
finger;  the  touch  was  no  more  than  the  slight  prick 
of  a  pin.  The  man's  impulse  then  exhausted  itself. 
What  should  he  do  with  it?  He  put  his  hand  behind 
him,  he  dared  not  look,  but  there  was  nothing  to  be  done 
except  kill  it  at  once,  quickly,  quickly.  Oh,  how  should 
he  do  it?  He  bent  towards  the  fire  as  if  to  drop  the 
mouse  into  its  quenching  glow ;  but  he  paused  and  shud- 
dered, he  would  hear  its  cries,  he  would  have  to  listen. 
Should  he  crush  it  with  finger  and  thumb?  A  glance 
towards  the  window  decided  him.  He  opened  the  sash 
with  one  hand  and  flung  the  wounded  mouse  far  into 
the  dark  street.  Closing  the  window  with  a  crash  he 
sank  into  a  chair,  limp  with  pity  too  deep  for  tears. 

So  he  sat  for  two  minutes,  five  minutes,  ten  minutes. 
Anxiety  and  shame  filled  him  with  heat.  He  opened 
the  window  again,  and  the  freezing  air  poured  in  and 
cooled  him.  Seizing  his  lantern  he  ran  down  the  echo- 
ing stairs,  into  the  dark  empty  street,  searching  long 
and  vainly  for  the  little  philosopher  until  he  had  to 
desist  and  return  to  his  room,  shivering,  frozen  to  his 
very  bones. 

When  he  had  recovered  some  warmth  he  took  the 
trap  from  its  shelf.  The  two  feet  dropped  into  his 
hand ;  he  cast  them  into  the  fire.  Then  he  once  more 
set  the  trap  and  put  it  back  carefully  into  the  cupboard. 


FELIX  TINCLER 


FELIX  TINXLER 

THE  child  was  to  have  a  birthday  tomorrow 
and  was  therefore  not  uneasy  about  being 
late  home  from  school  this  afternoon.  He 
had  lost  his  pencil  case;  a  hollow  long  round  thing  it 
was,  like  a  rolling-pin,  only  it  had  green'  and  yellow 
rings  painted  uj^on  it.  He  kept  his  marbles  in  it  and 
so  he  was  often  in  a  trouble  about  his  pencils.  He 
bad  not  tried  very  much  to  find  the  pencil  case  because 
the  boys  "deludered"  him — that's  what  his  father 
always  said.  He  had  asked  Heber  deed  if  he  had  seen 
it — he  had  strange  suspicions  of  that  boy — but  Hebet 
deed  had  sworn  so  earnestly  that  the  greengrocer 
opposite  the  school  had  picked  it  up,  he  had  even  "saw 
him  do  it,"  that  Felix  Tincler  went  into  Mr.  Gobbit's 
shop,  and  when  the  greengrocer  lady  appeared  in 
answer  to  the  ring  of  the  door  bell  he  enquired  politely 
for  his  pencil  case.  She  was  tall  and  terrible  with  a 
squint  and,  what  was  worse,  a  large  velvety  mole  with 
hairs  sprouting  from  it.  She  immediately  and  with 
inexplicable  fury  desired  him  to  flee  from  her  green- 
grocer shop,  with  a  threat  of  alternative  castigation  in 
which  a  flatiron  and  a  red-hot  pick-axe  were  to  figure 
with  unusual  and  unpleasant  prominence.     Well  he  had 

175 


176  FELIX  TINCLER 

run  out  of  Mr.  Gobbit's  shop,  and  there  was  Heber 
deed  standing  in  the  road  gigghng  derisively  at  him. 
FeHx  walked  on  alone,  looking  in  the  gutters  and  areas 
for  his  pencil  case,  until  he  encountered  another 
friendly  boy  who  took  him  to  dig  in  a  garden  where 
they  grew  castor-oil  plants.  When  he  went  home  it 
was  late;  as  he  ran  along  under  the  high  wall  of  the 
orphanage  that  occupied  one  end  of  his  street  its  harsh 
peevish  bell  clanged  out  six  notes.  He  scampered  past 
the  great  gateway  under  the  dismal  arch  that  always 
filled  him  with  uneasiness,  he  never  passed  it  without 
feeling  the  sad  trouble  that  a  prison  might  give.  He 
stepped  into  his  own  pleasant  home,  a  little  mute,  and 
a  little  dirty  in  appearance;  but  at  six  years  of  age  in  a 
home  so  comfortable  and  kind  the  eve  of  the  day  that 
is  to  turn  you  into  seven  is  an  occasion  great  enough 
to  yield  an  amnesty  for  peccadilloes.  His  father  was 
already  in  from  work,  he  could  hear  him  singing.  He 
gave  his  mother  the  sprigs  he  had  picked  from  the 
castor-oil  plant  and  told  her  about  the  pencil  case. 
The  meal  was  laid  upon  the  table,  and  while  mother 
was  gone  into  the  kitchen  to  boil  the  water  for  tea  he 
sat  down  and  tried  to  smooth  out  the  stiff  creases  in 
the  white  table  cloth.  His  father  was  singing  gaily 
in  the  scullery  as  he  washed  and  shaved : 

High  cockalorum, 

Charlie  ate  the  spinach.  .  .  . 

He  ceased  for  a  moment  to  give  the  razor  a  vigorous 
stropping  and  then  continued: 


FELIX  TINCLER  177 

High  cockalorum, 
High  cockalee.  .  .  . 

Felix  knew  that  was  not  the  conclusion  of  the  song. 
He  listened,  but  for  some  moments  all  that  followed 
was  the  loud  crepitation  of  a  razor  searching  a  stubborn 
beard  and  the  sigh  of  the  kettle.  Then  a  new  vigour 
seized  the  singer: 

But  mother  brought  the  pandy  dozvn 
And  bate  the  grce.  .  .  . 

Again  that  rasping  of  chin  briefly  intervened,  but  the 
conclusion  of  the  cropping  was  soon  denoted  by  the 
strong  rallentando  of  the  singer: 

.  .  .dy  image, 
High  cock-alormn, 
High  cock-a-lee. 

Mrs.  Tincler  brought  in  the  teapot  and  her  husband 
followed  her  with  his  chin  tightly  shaven  but  blue, 
crying  with  mock  horror: 

"Faylix,  my  son !  that  is  seven  years  old  tomorrow  I 
look  at  him,  Mary,  the  face  of  him  and  the  hands  of 
him !  I  didn't  know  there  was  a  bog  in  this  parish ; 
is  it  creeping  in  a  bog  you  have  been?" 

The  boy  did  not  blench  at  his  father's  spurious  aus- 
terity, he  knew  he  was  the  soul  of  kindness  and  fun. 

"Go  wash  yourself  at  the  sink,"  interposed  his 
mother.  Kevin  Tincler,  taking  his  son  by  the  hand, 
continued  with  mocking  admonishment:  "All  the  fine 


178  FELIX  TINCLER 

copybooks  of  the  world  that  you've  filled  up  with  that 
blather  about  cleanliness  and  holiness,  the  up  strokes 
very  thin  and  the  down  strokes  very  thick!  What 
was  it,  Mary,  he  has  let  it  all  out  of  his  mind?" 

"Go  and  wash,  Felix,  and  come  quickly  and  have 
your  tea,"  laughed  Mary  Tincler. 

"Ah,  but  what  was  it — in  that  grand  book  of  yours?" 

The  boy  stood,  in  his  short  buff  tunic,  regarding  his 
father  with  shy  amusement.  The  small  round  clear- 
skinned  face  was  lovely  with  its  blushes  of  faint  rose; 
his  eyes  were  big  and  blue,  and  his  head  was  covered 
with  thick  curling  locks  of  rich  brown  hair. 

"Cleanliness  comes  next  to  godliness,"  he  replied. 

"Does  it  so,  indeed?"  exclaimed  his  father.  "Then 
you're  putting  your  godliness  in  a  pretty  low  category !" 

"What  nonsense,"  said  Mary  Tincler  as  the  boy 
left  them. 

The  Irishman  and  his  dark-eyed  Saxon  wife  sat 
down  at  the  table  waiting  for  their  son. 

"There's  a  bit  of  a  randy  in  the  Town  Gardens  to- 
night, Mary — dancing  on  the  green,  fireworks ! 
When  the  boy  is  put  to  bed  we'll  walk  that  way." 

Mary  expressed  her  pleasure  but  then  declared  she 
could  not  leave  the  boy  alone  in  his  bed. 

"He'll  not  hurt,  Mary,  he  has  no  fear  in  him.  Give 
him  the  birthday  gift  before  we  go.  Whisht,  he's  com- 
ing I" 

The  child,  now  clean  and  handsome,  came  to  his 
chair  and  looked  up  at  his  father  sitting  opposite  to 
him. 

"Holy  Mother !"  exclaimed  the  admiring  parent,  "it's 


FELIX  TINCLER  179 

the  neck  of  a  swan  he  has.  Faylix  Tincler,  may  ye 
live  to  be  the  father  of  a  bishop!" 

After  tea  his  father  took  him  up  on  the  down  for  an 
hour.  As  they  left  their  doorway  a  group  of  the  tidy 
but  wretched  orphans  was  marching  back  into  their 
seminary,  little  girls  moving  in  double  columns  be- 
hind a  stiff-faced  woman.  They  were  all  dressed  alike 
in  garments  of  charity  exact  as  pilchards.  Grey  capes, 
worsted  stockings,  straw  hats  with  blue  bands  round 
them,  and  hard  boots.  The  boys  were  coming  in  from 
a  different  direction,  but  all  of  them,  even  the  minutest, 
were  clad  in  corduroy  trousers  and  short  jackets  high 
throated  like  a  gaoler's.  This  identity  of  garment  was 
contrary  to  the  will  of  God  for  he  had  certainly  made 
their  pinched  bodies  diverse  enough.  Some  were 
short,  some  tall,  dark,  fair,  some  ugly,  others  hand- 
some. The  sight  of  them  made  Felix  unhappy,  he 
shrank  into  himself,  until  he  and  his  father  had  slipped 
through  a  gap  in  a  hedge  and  were  going  up  the  hill 
that  stretched  smoothly  and  easily  almost  from  their 
very  door.  The  top  of  the  down  here  was  quiet  and 
lovely,  but  a  great  flank  of  it  two  miles  away  was  scat- 
tered over  with  tiny  white  figures  playing  very  deliber- 
ately at  cricket.  Pleasant  it  was  up  there  in  the  calm 
evening,  and  still  bright,  but  the  intervening  valley  was 
full  of  grey  ungracious  houses,  allotments,  railway 
arches,  churches,  graveyards,  and  schools.  Worst  of 
all  was  the  dull  forbidding  aspect  of  the  Orphanage 
down  beyond  the  roof  of  their  own  house. 

They  played  with  a  ball  and  had  some  wrestling 
matches  until  the  declining  day  began  to  grow  dim  even 


l8o  FELIX  TINCLER 

on  the  hill  and  the  fat  jumbo  clouds  over  the  town  were 
turning  pink.  If  those  elephants  fell  on  him — what 
would  they  do?  Why,  they'd  mix  him  up  like  ice- 
cream!    So  said  his  father. 

"Do  things  ever  fall  out  of  the  sky?" 

"Rain,"  said  Mr.  Tinder. 

"Yes,  I  know." 

"Stars' — maybe." 

"Where  do  they  go  ?" 

"O  they  drop  on  the  hills  but  ye  can  never  find  'em." 

"Don't  Heaven  ever?" 

"What,  drop  down !  no,"  said  Mr.  Tincler,  "it  don't. 
I  have  not  heard  of  it  doing  that,  but  maybe  it  all  just 
stoops  down  sometimes,  Faylix,  until  it's  no  higher 
than  the  crown  of  your  hat.  Let  us  be  going  home 
now  and  ye'll  see  something  this  night." 

"What  is  it?" 

"Wait,  Faylix,  wait!" 

As  they  crossed  from  the  hill  Mary  drawing  down 
the  blinds  signalled  to  them  from  the  window. 

"Come  along,  Felix,"  she  cried,  and  the  child  ran 
into  the  darkened  room.  Upon  the  table  was  set  a 
little  church  of  purest  whiteness.  Kevin  had  bought 
it  from  an  Italian  hawker.  It  had  a  wonderful  tall 
steeple  and  a  cord  that  came  through  a  hole  and  pulled 
a  bell  inside.  And  that  was  not  all;  the  church  was 
filled  with  light  that  was  shining  through  a  number  of 
tiny  arched  windows,  blue,  purple,  green,  violet,  the 
wonderful  windows  were  everywhere.  Felix  was 
silent  with  wonder;  how  could  you  get  a  light  in  a 


FELIX  TINCLER  l8l 

church  that  hadn't  got  a  door!  then  Mary  h'ftcd  the 
hollow  huilding  from  the  table;  it  had  no  floor,  and 
there  was  a  night-light  glowing  in  one  of  her  patty-pans 
filled  with  water.  The  church  was  taken  up  to  bed 
with  him  in  the  small  chamber  next  his  parents'  room 
and  set  upon  a  bureau.  Kevin  and  Mary  then  went 
off  to  the  "bit  of  devilment"  in  the  town  gardens. 
Felix  kept  skipping  from  his  bed,  first  to  gaze  at  the 
church,  and  then  to  lean  out  of  the  window  in  his  night- 
shirt, looking  for  the  lamplighter  who  would  come  to 
the  street  lamp  outside.  The  house  was  the  very  last, 
and  the  lamp  was  the  very  last  lamp,  on  one  of  the 
roads  that  led  from  the  town  and  thence  went  poking 
out  into  the  steady  furze-covered  downs.  And  as  the 
lamp  was  the  very  last  to  be  lit  darkness  was  always 
half-fallen  by  the  time  the  old  man  arrived  at  his 
journey's  end.  He  carried  a  pole  with  a  brass  tube  at 
one  end.  There  were  holes  in  the  brass  tube  showing 
gleams  of  light.  The  pole  rested  upon  his  shoulders 
as  he  trudged  along  humming  huskily. 

"Here  he  is,"  cried  Felix,  leaning  from  the  window 
and  waving  a  white  arm.  The  dull  road,  empty  of 
traffic  and  dim  as  his  mother's  pantry  by  day,  curved 
slightly,  and  away  at  the  other  end  of  the  curve  a  jet 
of  light  had  sprung  suddenly  into  the  gloom  like  a 
bright  flower  bursting  its  sheath ;  a  black  figure  moved 
along  towards  him  under  the  Orphanage  wall.  Other 
lamps  blossomed  with  light  and  the  lamplighter, 
approaching  the  Tinders'  lamp,  thrust  the  end  of  his 
pole  into  the  lantern,  his  head  meanwhile  craning  back 


1 82  FELIX  TINCLER 

like  the  head  of  a  horse  that  has  been  pulled  violently 
backwards.  He  deftly  turned  the  tap ;  with  a  tiny  dull 
explosion  that  sounded  like  a  doormat  being  beaten 
against  the  wall  in  the  next  street  the  lamp  was  lit  and 
the  face  of  the  old  man  sprang  into  vague  brilliance, 
for  it  was  not  yet  utterly  dark.  Vague  as  the  light 
was,  the  neighbouring  hills  at  once  faded  out  of  recog- 
nition and  became  black  bulks  of  oblivion. 

"Oi  .  .  .  Oi  .  .  ."  cried  the  child,  clapping  his 
hands.  The  old  man's  features  relaxed,  he  grunted  in 
relief,  the  pole  slid  down  in  his  palm.  As  the  end  of 
it  struck  the  pavement  a  sharp  knock  he  drew  an  old 
pipe  from  his  pocket  and  lit  it  quite  easily  although  one 
of  his  hands  was  deficient  of  a  thumb  and  some 
fingers.  He  was  about  to  travel  back  into  the  spar- 
kling town  when  Felix  called  to  him: 

"Soloman!  Soloman!" 

"Goo  an  to  yer  bed,  my  little  billycock,  or  you'll 
ketch  a  fever," 

"No,  but  what's  this?"  Felix  was  pointing  to  the 
ground  below  him.  The  old  man  peered  over  the  iron 
railings  into  the  front  garden  that  had  just  sufficient 
earth  to  cherish  four  deciduous  bushes,  two  plants  of 
marigold,  and  some  indeterminate  herbs.  In  the  dim- 
ness of  their  shadows  a  glowworm  beamed  clearly. 

"That?"  exclaimed  he.  "O  s'dripped  off  the  moon, 
yas,  right  ofif,  moon's  wastin'  away,  you'll  see  later  on 
if  you'm  watch  out  fer  it,  s'dripped  off  the  moon,  right 
off,"  Chuckling,  he  blew  out  the  light  at  the  end  of 
his  pole,  and  went  away,  but  turned  at  intervals  to 
wave  his   hand   towards   the   sky,   crying  "Later  on, 


FELIX  TINCLER  1 83 

right  off!"  and  cackling  genially  until  he  came  to  a 
tavern. 

The  child  stared  at  the  glowworm  and  then  sur- 
veyed the  sky,  but  the  tardy  moon  was  deep  behind 
the  hills.  He  left  the  open  window  and  climbed  into 
bed  again.  The  house  was  empty,  but  he  did  not 
mind,  father  and  mother  had  gone  to  buy  him  another 
birthday  gift.  He  did  not  mind,  the  church  glowed 
in  its  corner  on  the  bureau,  the  street  lamp  shined  all 
over  the  ceiling  and  a  little  bit  upon  the  wall  where  the 
splendid  picture  of  Wexford  Harbour  was  hanging. 
It  was  not  gloomy  at  all  although  the  Orphanage  bell 
once  sounded  very  piercingly.  Sometimes  people 
would  stroll  by,  but  not  often,  and  he  would  hear  them 
mumbling  to  each  other.  He  Avould  rather  have  a 
Chinese  lantern  first,  and  next  to  that  a  little  bagpipe, 
and  next  to  that  a  cockatoo  with  a  yellow  head,  and 
then  a  Chinese  lantern,  and  then  .  ,  ,  He  awoke ; 
he  thought  he  heard  a  heavy  bang  on  the  door  as  if 
somebody  had  thrown  a  big  stone.  But  when  he 
looked  out  of  the  window  there  was  nobody  to  be  seen. 
The  little  moon  drip  was  still  lying  in  the  dirt,  the  sky 
was  softly  black,  the  stars  were  vivid,  only  the  lamp 
dazzled  his  eyes  and  he  could  not  see  any  moon.  But 
as  he  yawned  he  saw  just  over  the  down  a  rich  globe 
of  light  moving  very  gradually  towards  him.  swaying 
and  falling,  falling  in  the  still  air.  To  the  child's 
dazzled  eyes  the  great  globe,  dropping  towards  him 
as  if  it  would  crush  the  house,  was  shaped  like  an 
elephant,  a  fat  squat  jumbo  with  a  green  trunk. 
Then  to  his  relief  it  fell  suddenly  from  the  sky  right 


l8'4  FELIX  TINCLER 

on  to  the  down  where  he  and  father  had  played.  The 
light  was  extinguished  and  black  night  hid  the  deflated 
fire-balloon. 

He  scrambled  back  into  bed  again  but  how  he 
wished  it  was  morning  so  that  he  could  go  out  and 
capture  the  old  elephant — he  knew  he  would  find  it! 
When  at  last  he  slept  he  sank  into  a  world  of  white 
churches  that  waved  their  steeples  like  vast  trunks, 
and  danced  with  elephants  that  had  bellies  full  of 
fire  and  hidden  bells  that  clanged  impetuously  to  a 
courageous  pull  of  each  tail.  He  did  not  wake  again 
until  morning  was  bright  and  birds  were  singing.  It 
was  early  but  it  was  his  birthday.  There  were  no 
noises  in  the  street  yet,  and  he  could  not  hear  his 
father  or  mother  moving  about.  He  crawled  silently 
from  his  bed  and  dressed  himself.  The  coloured 
windows  in  the  little  white  fane  gleamed  still,  but  it 
looked  a  little  dull  now.  He  took  the  cake  that 
mother  always  left  at  his  bedside  and  crept  down  the 
stairs.  There  he  put  on  his  shoes  and,  munching  the 
cake,  tiptoed  to  the  front  door.  It  was  not  bolted 
but  it  was  difficult  for  him  to  slip  back  the  latch 
quietly,  and  when  at  last  it  was  done  and  he  stood  out- 
side upon  the  step  he  was  doubly  startled  to  hear  a 
loud  rapping  on  the  knocker  of  a  house  a  few  doors 
away.  He  sidled  quickly  but  warily  to  the  corner  of 
the  street,  crushing  the  cake  into  his  pocket,  and  then 
peeped  back.  It  was  more  terrible  than  he  had  anti- 
cipated! A  tall  policeman  stood  outside  that  house 
bawling  to  a  woman  with  her  hair  in  curl  papers  who 
was    lifting   the    sash    of   an   upper   window.     Felix 


FELIX  TINCLER  1 85 

turned  and  ran  through  the  gap  in  the  hedge  and  on- 
wards up  the  hill.  He  did  not  wait;  he  thought  he 
heard  the  policeman  calling  out  "Tincler !"  and  he  ran 
faster  and  faster,  then  slower  and  more  slow  as  the 
down  steepened,  until  he  was  able  to  sink  down 
breathless  behind  a  clump  of  the  furze,  out  of  sight  and 
out  of  hearing.  The  policeman  did  not  appear  to  be 
following  him ;  he  moved  on  up  the  hill  and  through 
the  soft  smooth  alleys  of  the  furze  until  he  reached 
the  top  of  the  down,  searching  always  for  the  white 
elephant  which  he  knew  must  be  hidden  close  there 
and  nowhere  else,  although  he  had  no  clear  idea  in 
his  mind  of  the  appearance  of  his  mysterious  quarry. 
^''ain  search,  the  elephant  was  shy  or  cunning  and 
eluded  him.  Hungry  at  last  and  tired  he  sat  down  and 
leaned  against  a  large  ant  hill  close  beside  the  thick 
and  perfumed  furze.  Here  he  ate  his  cake  and  then 
lolled,  a  little  drowsy,  looking  at  the  few  clouds  in 
the  sky  and  listening  to  birds.  A  flock  of  rooks  was 
moving  in  straggling  flight  towards  him.  a  wide  flat 
changing  skein,  like  a  curtain  of  crape  that  was  being 
pulled  and  stretched  delicately  by  invisible  fingers. 
One  of  the  rooks  flapped  just  over  him;  it  had  a 
small  round  hole  right  through  the  feathers  of  one 
wing— what  was  that  for?  Felix  was  just  falling  to 
sleep,  it  was  so  soft  and  comfortable  there,  when  a  tiny 
noise,  very  tiny  but  sharp  and  mysterious,  went  "Ping!" 
just  by  his  ear,  and  something  stung  him  lightly  in 
the  neck.  He  knelt  up,  a  little  startled,  but  he  peered 
steadily  under  the  furze.  "Ping!"  went  something 
again  and  stung  him  in  the  ball  of  the  eye.     It  made 


1 86  FELIX  TINCLER 

him  blink.  He  drew  back;  after  staring  silently  at 
the  furze  he  said  very  softly  "Come  out!"  Nothing 
came;  he  beckoned  with  his  forefinger  and  called 
aloud  with  friendliness  "Come  on,  come  out !"  At  that 
moment  his  nose  was  almost  touching  a  brown  dry 
sheath  of  the  furze  bloom,  and  right  before  his  eyes 
the  dried  flower  burst  with  the  faint  noise  of  "Ping!" 
and  he  felt  the  shower  of  tiny  black  seeds  shooting 
against  his  cheek.  At  once  he  comprehended  the 
charming  mystery  of  the  furze's  dispersal  of  its  seeds, 
and  he  submitted  himself  to  the  fairy  like  bombard- 
ment with  great  glee,  forgetting  even  the  elephant 
until  in  one  of  the  furze  alleys  he  came  in  sight  of  a 
heap  of  paper  that  fluttered  a  little  heavily.  He  went 
towards  it;  it  was  so  large  that  he  could  not  make  out 
its  shape  or  meaning.  It  was  a  great  white  bag  madjg 
of  paper,  all  crumpled  and  damp,  with  an  arrange- 
ment of  wire  where  the  hole  was  and  some  burned  tow 
fixed  in  it.  But  at  last  he  was  able  to  perceive  the 
green  trunk,  and  it  also  had  pink  eyes !  He  had 
found  it  and  he  was  triumphant !  There  were  words 
in  large  black  letters  painted  upon  it  which  he  could 
not  read,  except  one  word  which  was  cure.  It  was 
an  advertisement  fire-balloon  relating  to  a  specific 
for  catarrh.  He  rolled  the  elephant  together  care- 
fully, and  carrying  the  mass  of  it  clasped  in  his  two 
arms  he  ran  back  along  the  hill  chuckling  to  himself, 
"I'm  carrying  the  ole  elephant."  Advancing  down  the 
hill  to  his  home  he  was  precariously  swathed  in  a 
drapery  of  balloon  paper.  The  door  stood  open;  he 
walked  into  the  kitchen.     No  one  was  in  the  kitchen 


FELIX  TINCLER  1 87 

but  there  were  sharp  strange  voices  speaking  in  the 
room  above.  He  thought  he  must  have  come  into  the 
wrong  house  but  the  strange  noises  frightened  him  into 
silence ;  he  stood  quite  still  listening  to  them.  He  had 
dropped  the  balloon  and  it  unfolded  upon  the  floor, 
partly  revealing  the  astounding  advertisement  of 

PKASEGOOD'S  PODOPHYLLIN 

The  voices  above  were  unravelling  horror  upon 
horror.  He  knew  by  some  divining  instinct  that 
tragedy  was  happening  to  him,  had  indeed  already  en- 
veloped and  crushed  him.  A  mortar  had  exploded 
at  the  fireworks  display,  killing  and  wounding  people 
that  he  knew. 

"She  had  a  great  hole  of  a  wound  in  the  soft  part 
of   her  thigh   as  you  could  put  a  cokernut  in  .  .  ." 

"God  a  mighty.  .  .    !" 

"Died  in  five  minutes,  poor  thing." 

"And  the  husband  .  .  .  they  couldn't  .  .  .   ?" 

"No,  couldn't  identify  .  .  .  they  could  not  identify 
him  .  .  .  only  by  some  papers  in  his  pocket." 

"And  he'd  got  a  little  bagpipe  done  up  in  a  package 
...  for  their  little  boy.  .  .  ." 

"Never  spoke  a  word.  .  .  ." 

"Never  a  word,  poor  creature." 

"May  Christ  be  good  to  'em." 

"Yes,  yes,"  they  all  said  softly. 

The  child  walked  quietly  up  the  stairs  to  his 
mother's  bedroom.  Two  policemen  were  there  making 
notes  in  their  pocket  books,  their  helmets  lying  on  the 
unused  bed.     There  were  also  three  or  four  friendly 


l88i  FELIX  TINCLER 

women  neighbours.  As  he  entered  the  room  the 
gossip  ceased  abruptly.  One  of  the  women  gasped 
"O  Jesus !"  and  they  seemed  to  huddle  together  eyeing 
him  as  if  he  had  stricken  them  with  terror.  With  his 
fingers  still  upon  the  handle  of  the  door  he  looked  up 
at  the  tallest  policeman  and  said : 

"What's  the  matter?" 

The  policeman  did  not  reply  immediately;  he  folded 
up  his  notebook,  but  the  woman  who  had  gasped  came 
to  him  with  a  yearning  cry  and  wrapped  him  in  her 
protesting  arms  with  a  thousand  kisses. 

"Ye  poor  lamb,  ye  poor  little  orphan,  whatever 
'ull  become  of  ye!" 

At  that  moment  the  bell  of  the  Orphanage  burst 
into  a  peal  of  harsh  impetuous  clangour,  and  the 
policemen  picked  up  their  helmets  from  the  bed. 


THE  ELIXIR  OF  YOUTH 


THE  ELIXIR  OF  YOUTH 

SINCE  the  earth  began  its  twisting,  or  since  very 
soon  after  it  began,  there  have  been  persons 
on  it  who  perceived  more  or  less  early  in  life 
that  it  was  seldom  possible  to  get  something  in  return 
for  quite  nothing,  and  that  even  if  you  did  the  delicate 
situation  then  arising  was  attended  often  with  at  least 
as  much  personal  danger  as  delight,  and  generally  with 
much  more.  Tom  Toole  knew  all  about  it,  so  he  was  not 
going  to  sell  his  own  little  white  soul  to  the  devil, 
though  he  was  sixty  years  of  age  and  his  soul,  he  ex- 
pected, was  shrivelled  a  bit  now  like  a  dried  fig.  He 
had  no  faith  in  Wishing  Hats,  or  Magic  Carpets,  or 
Herbs  of  Longevity,  and  he  had  not  heard  of  the 
Philosopher's  Stone,  but  he  had  a  belief  in  an  Elixir, 
somewhere  in  the  world,  that  would  make  you  young 
again.  He  had  heard,  too,  of  the  Transmutation  of 
Metals;  indeed,  he  had  associated  himself  a  great 
many  years  ago  with  a  Belfast  brass  founder  in  the 
production  of  certain  sovereigns.  The  brass  founder 
perished  under  the  rigours  of  his  subsequent  incarcer- 
ation in  gaol,  but  Tom  Toole  had  been  not  at  all  un- 
comfortable in  the  lunatic  asylum  to  which  a  com- 
passionate retribution   had  assigned  him.      It  was  in 

191 


192  THE  ELIXIR  OF  YOUTH 

the  Asylum  that  he  met  the  man  from  Kilsheelan  who, 
if  you  could  believe  him,  really  had  got  a  "touch" 
from  the  fairies  and  could  turn  things  he  had  no  wish 
for  into  the  things  he  would  be  wanting.  The  man 
from  Kilsheelan  first  discovered  his  gift,  so  he  told  Tom 
Toole,  when  he  caught  a  turtle  dove  one  day  and 
changed  it  into  a  sheep.  Then  he  turned  the  sheep 
into  a  lather-pot  just  to  make  sure,  and  it  zvas  sure. 
So  he  thought  he  would  like  to  go  to  the  land  of  the 
Ever  Young  which  is  in  the  western  country,  but  he 
did  not  know  how  he  could  get  there  unless  he  went 
in  a  balloon.  Sure,  he  sat  down  in  his  cabin  and 
turned  the  shaving-pot  into  a  fine  balloon,  but  the 
balloon  was  so  large  it  burst  down  his  house  and  he 
was  brought  to  the  asylum.  Well  that  was  clear 
enough  to  Tom  Toole,  and  after  he  had  got  good 
advice  from  the  man  from  Kilsheelan  it  came  into  his 
mind  one  day  to  slip  out  of  the  big  gates  of  the 
asylum,  and,  believe  me,  since  then  he  had  walked 
the  roads  of  Munster  singing  his  ballads  and 
searching  for  something  was  difficult  to  find,  and 
that  was  his  youth.  For  Tom  Toole  was  grow- 
ing old,  a  little  old  creature  he  was  growing,  gay 
enough  and  a  bit  of  a  philanderer  still,  but  age  is 
certain  and  puts  the  black  teeth  in  your  mouth  and  the 
whiteness  of  water  on  your  hair. 

One  time  he  met  a  strange  little  old  quick-talking 
man  who  came  to  him;  he  seemed  to  just  bob  up  in 
front  of  him  from  the  road  itself. 

"Ah,  good  day  t'ye.  and  phwat  part  are  ye  fram?" 
"I'm  from  beyant,"  said  Tom  Toole,  nodding  back 


THE  ELIXIR  OF  YOUTH  1 93 

to    the    Knockmealdowu    Mountains    where    the   good 
monks  had  lodged  him  for  a  night. 

"Ah,  God  dehver  ye  and  indeed  I  don't  want  to 
know  your  business  at  all  but  .  .  .  but  .  .  .  where 
are  ye  going?" 

Between  his  words  he  kept  spitting,  in  six  or  seven 
I'ttle  words  there  would  be  at  least  one  spit.  There  was 
yellow  dust  in  the  flaps  of  his  ears  and  neat  bushes  of 
hair  in  the  holes.  Cranks  and  wrinkles  covered  his 
nose,  and  the  skull  of  him  was  bare  but  there  was  a 
good  tuft  on  his  chin.  Tom  Toole  looked  at  him 
straight  and  queer  for  he  did  not  admire  the  fierce  ex- 
pression of  him,  and  there  were  smells  of  brimstone 
on  him  like  a  farmer  had  been  dipping  his  ewes,  and 
he  almost  expected  to  see  a  couple  of  horns  growing 
out  of  his  brow. 

"It's  not  meself  does  be  knowing  at  all,  good  little 
man,"  said  Tom  Toole  to  him,  "and  I  might  go  to  the 
fair  of  Cappoquin,  or  I  might  walk  on  to  Dungarvan, 
in  the  harbour  now,  to  see  will  I  buy  a  couple  of 
lobsters  for  me  nice  supper." 

And  he  turned  away  to  go  off  upon  his  road  but 
the  little  old  man  followed  and  kept  by  his  side,  tell- 
ing him  of  a  misfortune  he  had  endured;  a  chaise  of 
his,  a  little  pony  chaise,  had  been  almost  destroyed, 
but  the  ruin  was  not  so  great  for  a  kind  lady  of  his 
acquaintance,  a  lady  of  his  own  denomination,  had 
given  him  four  pounds,  one  shilling  and  ninepence. 
"Ah,  not  that  I'm  needing  your  money,  ma'am,  says  I, 
but  damage  is  damage,  I  says,  and  it's  not  right.  I  says, 
that  I  should  be  at  the  harm  of  your  coachman."     And 


194  '^^^  ELIXIR  OF  YOUTH 

there  he  was  spitting  and  going  on  like  a  clock  spilling 
over  its  machinery  when  he  unexpectedly  grasped  Tom 
Toole  by  the  hand,  wished  him  Good  day,  and  Good 
luck,  and  that  he  might  meet  him  again. 

Tom  Toole  walked  on  for  an  hour  and  came  to  a 
cross  roads,  and  there  was  the  same  old  man  sitting  in 
a  neat  little  pony  chaise  smoking  his  pipe. 

"Where  are  ye  going?"  says  he. 

"Dungarvan,"  said  Tom  Toole. 

"Jump  in  then,"  said  the  little  old  man,  and  they 
jogged  along  the  road  conversing  together;  he  was 
sharp  as  an  old  goat. 

"What  is  your  aspiration?"  he  said,  and  Tom  Toole 
told  him. 

"That's  a  good  aspiration,  indeed.  I  know  what 
you're  seeking,  Tom  Toole ;  let's  get  on  now  and  there'll 
be  tidings  in  it." 

When  Tom  Toole  and  the  little  old  man  entered  the 
public  at  Dungarvan  there  was  a  gang  of  strong  young 
fellows,  mechanics  and  people  to  drive  the  traction 
engines,  for  there  was  a  circus  in  it.  Getting  their 
fill  of  porter,  they  were,  and  the  nice  little  white 
loaves;  very  decent  boys,  but  one  of  them  a  Scotchman 
with  a  large  unrejoicing  face.  And  he  had  a  hooky 
nose  with  tussocks  of  hair  in  the  nostrils  and  the  two 
tails  of  hair  to  his  moustache  like  an  old  Chinese  man. 
Peter  Mullane  was  telling  a  tale,  and  there  was  a  sad 
bit  of  a  man  from  Bristol,  with  a  sickness  in  his  breast 
and  a  cough  that  would  heave  out  the  side  of  a  moun- 
tain. Peter  Mullane  waited  while  Tom  Toole  and  his 
friend  sat  down  and  then  he  proceeded  with  his  tale. 


THE  ELIXIR  OF  YOUTH  195 

"Away  with  ye!  said  the  devil  to  Neal  CarHn,  and 
away  he  was  gone  to  the  four  corners  of  the  world. 
And  when  he  came  to  the  first  corner  he  saw  a  place 
where  the  rivers  do  he  rushing,  .  .  ." 

".  .  .  the  only  dam  thing  that  docs  rush  then  in  this 
country,"  interrupted  the  Scotchman  with  a  sneer. 

"Shut  your  .  .  ."  began  the  man  from  Bristol,  but 
he  was  taken  with  the  cough,  until  his  cheeks  were 
scarlet  and  his  eyes,  fixed  angrily  upon  the  Highland 
man,  were  strained  to  teardrops.  "Shut  your  .  .  ."  he 
began  it  again,  but  he  was  rent  by  a  large  and  vexing 
spasm  that  rocked  him,  while  his  friends  looked  at 
him  and  wondered  would  he  be  long  for  this  world. 
He  recovered  quite  suddenly  and  exclaimed  ".  .  .  dam 
face"  to  that  Highland  man.  And  then  Peter  Mul- 
lane  went  on : 

"I  am  not  given  to  thinking,"  said  he.  "that  the  Lord 
would  put  a  country  the  like  of  Ireland  in  a  wee  corner 
of  the  world  and  he  wanting  the  nook  of  it  for  thistles 
and  the  poor  savages  that  devour  them.  Well,  Neal 
Carlin  came  to  a  place  where  the  rivers  do  be  rush- 
ing .  .  ."  he  paused  invitingly — "and  he  saw  a  little 
fairy  creature  with  fine  tresses  of  hair  sitting  under 
a  rowan  tree." 

"A  rowan?"  exclaimed  the  Highland  man. 

Peter  nodded. 

"A  Scottish  tree!"  declared  the  other. 

"O  shut  your  .  .  ."  began  the  little  coughing  man, 
but  again  his  conversation  was  broken,  and  by  the 
time  he  had  recovered  from  his  spasms  the  company 
was  mute. 


196  THE  ELIXIR  OF  YOUTH 

"If,"  said  Peter  Mullane,  "3^ou'd  wish  to  observe  the 
rowan  in  its  pride  and  beauty  just  clap  your  eye  upon 
it  in  the  Galtee  Mountains.  How  would  it  thrive,  I 
ask  you,  in  a  place  was  stiff  with  granite  and  sloppy 
with  haggis  ?  And  what  would  ye  do,  my  clever  man, 
what  would  ye  do  if  ye  met  a  sweet  fairy 
woman  ...    ?" 

"I'd  kiss  the  Judy,"  said  the  Highland  man  spitting 
a  great  splash. 

Peter  Mullane  gazed  at  him  for  a  minute  or  two 
as  if  he  did  not  love  him  very  much,  but  then  he  con- 
tinued : 

"Neal  Carlin  was  attracted  by  her,  she  was  a  sweet 
creature.  Warm!  says  she  to  him  with  a  friendly 
tone.  Begod,  ma'am,  it  is  a  hot  day,  he  said,  and 
thinks  he,  she  is  a  likely  person  to  give  me  my  aspira- 
tion. And  sure  enough  when  he  sat  down  beside  her 
she  asked  him  What  is  your  aspiration,  Neal  Carlin? 
and  he  said,  saving  your  grace,  ma'am,  it  is  but  to 
enjoy  the  world  and  to  be  easy  in  it.  That  is  a  good 
aspiration,  she  said,  and  she  gave  him  some  secret 
advice.  He  went  home  to  his  farm,  Neal  Carlin  did, 
and  he  followed  the  advice,  and  in  a  month  or  two  he 
had  grown  very  wealthy  and  things  were  easy  with 
him.  But  still  he  was  not  satisfied,  he  had  a  greedy 
mind,  and  his  farm  looked  a  drifty  little  place  that  was 
holding  him  down  from  big  things.  So  he  was  not 
satisfied  though  things  were  easy  with  him,  and  one 
night  before  he  went  sleeping  he  made  up  his  mind 
'It's  too  small  it  is.  I'll  go  away  from  it  now  and  a  farm 
twice  as  big  I  will  have,  three  times  as  big,  yes,  I  will 


THE  ELIXIR  OF  YOUTH  1 97 

have  it  ten  times  as  big.'  He  went  sleeping  on  the 
wildness  of  his  avarice,  and  when  he  rolled  off  the 
settle  in  the  morning  and  stood  up  to  stretch  his  limbs 
he  hit  his  head  a  wallop  against  the  rafter.  He  cursed 
it  and  had  a  kind  of  thought  that  the  place  had  got 
smaller.  As  he  went  from  the  door  he  struck  his 
brow  against  the  lintel  hard  enough  to  beat  down  the 
house.  What  is  come  to  me,  he  roared  in  his  pains ; 
and  looking  into  his  field  there  were  his  five  cows  and 
his  bullock  no  bigger  than  sheep— will  ye  believe  that, 
then — and  his  score  of  ewes  no  bigger  than  rabbits, 
mind  it  now,  and  it  was  not  all,  for  the  very  jackdaws 
were  no  bigger  than  chafers  and  the  neat  little  wood 
was  no  more  account  than  a  grove  of  raspberry  bushes. 
Away  he  goes  to  the  surgeon's  to  have  drops  put  in  his 
eyes  for  he  feared  the  blindness  was  coming  on  him,  but 
on  his  return  there  was  his  bullock  no  bigger  than 
an  old  boot,  and  his  cabin  had  wasted  to  the  size  of 
a  birdcage." 

Peter  leaned  forward,  for  the  boys  were  quiet,  and 
consumed  a  deal  of  porter.  And  the  Highland  man 
asked  him  "Well,  what  happened!" 

"O  he  just  went  up  to  his  cabin  and  kicked  it  over 
the  hedge  as  you  might  an  old  can,  and  then  he 
strolled  off  to  another  corner  of  the  world,  Neal  Carl  in 
did,  whistling  The  Lanty  Girl.'  " 

Tom  Toole's  friend  spoke  to  Peter  I\Tullane.  "Did 
ye  say  it  was  in  the  Galtee  Mountains  that  the  young 
fellow  met  the  lady?" 

"In  the  Galtee  Mountains."  said  Peter. 

"To  the  Galtee   Mountains  let  us  be  going,   Tom 


198  THE  ELIXIR  OF  YOUTH 

Toole,"  cried  the  little  old  man,  "Come  on  now,  there'll 
be  tidmgs  in  it!" 

So  off  they  drove;  and  when  they  had  driven  a  day 
and  slept  a  couple  of  nights  they  were  there,  and  they 
came  to  a  place  where  the  rivers  do  be  rushing  and 
there  was  a  rowan  tree  but  no  lady  in  it. 

"What  will  we  do  now,  Tom  Toole?"  says  the  old 
man. 

"We'll  not  stint  it."  says  he,  and  they  searched  by 
night  and  by  day  looking  for  a  person  would  give  them 
their  youth  again.  They  sold  the  chaise  for  some 
guineas  and  the  pony  for  a  few  more,  and  they  were 
walking  among  the  hills  for  a  thousand  days  but  never 
a  dust  of  fortune  did  they  discover.  Whenever  they 
asked  a  person  to  guide  them  they  would  be  swearing 
at  them  or  they  would  jeer. 

"Well,  may  a  good  saint  stretch  your  silly  old  skins 
for  ye !"  said  one. 

"Thinking  of  your  graves  and  travelling  to  the  priest 
ye  should  be !"  said  another. 

"The  nails  of  your  boots  will  be  rusty  and  rotted 
searching  for  the  like  of  that,"  said  a  third. 

"It's  two  quarts  of  black  milk  from  a  Kerry  cow  ye 
want,"  said  one,  "take  a  sup  of  that  and  you'll  be 
young  again!" 

"Of  black  milk!"  said  Tom  Toole's  friend;  "where 
would  we  get  that?" 

The  person  said  he  would  get  a  pull  of  it  in  the 
Comeragh  Mountains,  fifty  miles  away. 

"Tom  Toole,"  said  the  little  old  man,  "it's  what  I'll 
do.     I'll  walk  on  to  the  Comeragh  Mountains  to  see 


THE  ELIXIR  OF  YOUTH  199 

what  I  will  see,  and  do  you  go  on  searching  here,  for 
to  find  that  young  girl  would  be  better  than  fort)' 
guineas'  worth  of  blather.  And  when  I  find  the  cow 
I'll  take  my  fill  of  a  cup  and  bring  you  to  it." 

So  they  agreed  upon  it  and  the  old  man  went  away 
saying,  "I'll  be  a  score  of  days,  no  more.  Good  day, 
Tom  Toole,  good  day !"  much  as  an  old  crow  might 
shout  it  to  a  sweep. 

When  he  was  gone  Tom  Toole  journeyed  about  the 
world  and  the  day  after  he  went  walking  to  a  fair. 
Along  the  road  the  little  ass  carts  were  dribbling  into 
town  from  Fews  and  Carrigleena,  when  he  saw  a  young 
girl  in  a  field  trying  to  secure  an  ass. 

"Oi  .  .  .  Oi  .  .  .  !"  the  girl  was  calling  out  to  him 
and  he  went  in  the  field  and  helped  her  with  the  ass, 
which  was  a  devil  to  capture  and  it  not  wanting.  She 
thanked  him ;  she  was  a  sweet  slip  of  a  colleen  with  a 
long  fall  of  hair  that  the  wind  was  easy  with. 

"  'Tis  warm !"  she  said  to  Tom  Toole.  "Begod, 
ma'am,"  says  he  to  her  quickly,  taking  his  cue,  "it  is  a 
hot  day." 

"Where  are  ye  going,  Tom  Toole?"  she  asked  him, 
and  he  said,  "I  am  seeking  a  little  contrivance,  ma'am, 
that  will  let  me  enjoy  the  world  and  live  easy  in  it. 
That  is  my  aspiration." 

"Fll  give  you  what  you  are  seeking,"  and  she  gave 
him  a  wee  bottle  with  red  juices  in  it. 

"Indeed,  ma'am,  I'm  obliged  to  ye,"  and  he  took 
her  by  the  hand  and  wished  her  Good  day  and  Good 
luck  and  that  he  might  meet  her  again. 

When  he  got  the  elixir  of  youth  he  gave  over  his 


200  THE  ELIXIR  OF  YOUTH 

searching.  He  hid  the  bottle  in  his  breast  and  went  up 
into  the  mountains  as  high  as  he  could  go  to  bide  the 
coming  of  the  little  old  man.  It  is  a  queer  thing  but 
Tom  Toole  had  never  heard  the  name  of  him — it  would 
be  some  foreign  place  in  the  corners  of  the  world  lil; 
Portugal,  that  he  had  come  from;  no  doubt.  Up  he 
went;  first  there  was  rough  pasture  for  bullocks,  then 
fern  and  burst  furze,  and  then  little  but  heather,  and 
great  rocks  strewn  about  like  shells,  and  sour  brown 
streams  coming  from  the  bog.  He  wandered  about 
for  twenty  days  and  the  old  man  did  not  return,  and 
for  forty  days  he  was  still  alone. 

"The  divil  receive  him  but  I'll  die  against  his  re- 
turn !"  And  Tom  Toole  pulled  the  wee  bottle  from  his 
breast.  He  was  often  minded  to  lift  the  cork  and  take 
a  sup  of  the  elixir  of  youth.  "But,"  says  he,  "it 
would  be  an  unfriendly  deed.  Sure  if  I  got  me  youth 
sudden  I'd  be  off  to  the  wonders  of  the  land  and  leave 
that  old  fool  roaming  till  the  day  of  Judgment."  And 
he  would  put  the  bottle  away  and  wait  for  scores  of 
days  until  he  was  sick  and  sorry  with  grieving.  A 
thousand  days  he  was  on  his  lonely  wanderings,  soft 
days  as  mellow  as  cream,  and  hard  days  when  it  is  ribs 
of  iron  itself  you  would  want  to  stiffen  you  against 
the  crack  of  the  blast.  His  skimpy  hair  grew  down  to 
the  lappet  of  his  coat,  very  ugly  he  was,  but  the  little 
stranger  sheep  of  the  mountain  were  not  daunted  when 
he  moved  by,  and  even  the  flibeens  had  the  soft  call 
for  him.     A  thousand  days  was  in  it  and  then  he  said : 

"Good  evening  to  me  good  luck.  I've  had  my  enough 
of  this.     Sure  I'll  despise  myself  for  ever  more  if  1 


THE  ELIXIR  OF  YOUTH  201 

wait  the  tide  of  another  rlrifting  day.  It's  tonight  I'll 
sleep  in  a  bed  with  a  quilt  of  down  over  me  heart,  for 
I'm  going  to  be  young  again." 

He  crept  down  the  mountain  to  a  neat  little  town  and 
went  in  a  room  in  the  public  to  have  a  cup  of  porter. 
A  little  forlorn  old  man  also  came  in  from  the  road  and 
sat  down  beside,  and  when  they  looked  at  each  other 
they  each  let  out  a  groan.  "Glory  be !"  says  he. 
"Glory  be,"  cried  Tom  Toole,  "it's  the  good  little  man 
in  the  heel  of  it.     Where  in  hell  are  ye  from?" 

"From  the  mountains." 

"And  what  fortune  is  in  it,  did  ye  find  the  farm?" 

"Divil  a  clod." 

"Nor  the  Kerry  cow?" 

"Divil  a  horn." 

"Nor  the  good  milk?" 

"Divil  a  quart,  and  I  that  dry  I  could  be  drunk  with 
the  smell  of  it.  Tom  Toole,  I  have  traipsed  the  high 
and  the  deep  of  this  realm  and  believe  you  me  it  is  not 
in  it;  the  long  and  the  wide  of  this  realm  .  .  .  not  in 
it."     He  kept  muttering  sadly  "not  in  it." 

"Me  good  little  man,"  cried  Tom  Toole,  "don't  be 
havering  like  an  old  goat.  Here  it  is !  the  fortune  of 
the  world !" 

He  took  the  wee  bottle  from  his  breast  and  shook  it 
before  his  eyes.  "The  drops  that  'ull  give  ye  your 
youth  as  easy  as  shifting  a  shirt.  Come,  now,  I've 
waited  the  long  days  to  share  wid  ye,  for  I  couldn't 
bring  myself  to  desart  a  comrade  was  ranging  the  back 
of  the  wild  regions  for  the  likes  of  me.  Alany's  the 
time  I've  lifted  that  cork,  and  thinks  I :     He's  gone, 


202  THE  ELIXIR  OF  YOUTH 

and  soon  I'll  be  going,  so  here  goes.  Divil  a  go  was 
in  it.  I  could  not  do  it,  not  for  silver  and  not  for  gold 
and  not  for  all  the  mad  raging  mackerel  that  sleep  in 
the  sea." 

The  little  old  stranger  took  the  wee  bottle  in  his  two 
hands.  He  was  but  a  quavering  stick  of  a  man  now; 
half  dead  he  was,  and  his  name  it  is  Martin  O'Moore. 

"Is  it  the  rale  stuff,  Tom  Toole?" 

"From  herself  I  got  it,"  he  said,  and  he  let  on  to  him 
about  that  sweet-spoken  young  girl. 

"Did  she  give  you  the  directions  on  the  head  of  it?" 

"What  directions  is  it  ?" 

"The  many  drops  is  a  man  to  drink !" 

"No,  but  a  good  sup  of  it  will  do  the  little  job." 

"A  good  sup  of  it,  Tom  Toole,  a  good  sup  of  it, 
ay?"  says  he  unsqueezing  the  cork.  "The  elixir  of 
youth,  a  good  sup  of  it,  says  you,  a  good  sup  of  it,  a 
great  good  good  sup  of  it!" 

And  sticking  it  into  his  mouth  he  drained  the  wee 
bottle  of  its  every  red  drop.  He  stood  there  looking 
like  a  man  in  a  fit,  holding  the  empty  bottle  in  his  hand 
until  Tom  Toole  took  it  from  him  with  reproaches  in 
his  poor  old  eyes.  But  in  a  moment  it  was  his  very 
eyes  he  thought  were  deceiving  him ;  not  an  inch  of 
his  skin  but  had  the  dew  of  fear  on  it,  for  the  little  old 
man  began  to  change  his  appearance  quick  like  the  sand 
running  through  a  glass,  or  as  fast  as  the  country 
changes  down  under  a  flying  swan. 

"Mother  o'  God!"  screamed  Martin  O'Moore.  "it's 
too  fast  backward  I'm  growing,  dizzy  I  am." 

And  indeed  his  bald  head  suddenly  got  the  fine  black 


THE  ELIXIR  OF  YOUTH  203 

hair  grown  upon  it,  the  whiskers  flew  away  from  him 
and  his  face  was  young.  He  hegan  to  wear  a  strange 
old  suit  that  suddenly  got  new,  and  he  had  grown  down 
through  a  handsome  pair  of  trousers  and  into  the  little 
knickerbockers  of  a  boy  before  you  could  count  a  score. 
And  he  had  a  bit  of  a  cold  just  then,  though  he  was  out 
of  it  in  a  twink,  and  he  let  a  sneeze  that  burst  a  button 
off  his  breeches,  a  little  tin  button,  which  was  all  that 
ever  was  found  of  him.  Smaller  and  smaller  he  fell 
away,  like  the  dust  in  an  hour  glass,  till  he  was  no 
bigger  than  an  acorn  and  then  devil  a  bit  of  him  was 
left  there  at  all. 

Tom  Toole  was  frightened  at  the  quiet  and  the  emp- 
tiness and  he  made  to  go  away,  but  he  turned  in  the 
doorway  and  stretching  out  his  arms  to  the  empty 
room  he  whispered  "The  greed !  the  avarice !  May  hell 
pour  all  its  buckets  on  your  bad  little  heart !  May  .  .  ." 
But  just  then  he  caught  sight  of  the  cup  of  porter  that 
Martin  O'Moore  had  forgotten  to  drink,  so  he  went 
back  to  drink  his  enough  and  then  went  out  into  the 
great  roaring  world  where  he  walked  from  here  to 
there  until  one  day  he  came  right  back  to  his  old 
Asylum.  He  had  been  away  for  twenty  years,  he  was 
an  old  man,  very  old  indeed.  And  there  was  the  man 
from  Kilshcelan  digging  potatoes  just  inside  the  gates 
of  the  sunny  garden. 

"  'Tis  warm !"  said  the  traveller  staring  at  him 
through  the  railings,  but  the  man  from  Kilsheelan  only 
said  "Come  in,  Tom  Toole,  is  it  staying  or  going  ye 
are?" 


THE  CHERRY  TREE 


THE  CHERRY  TREE 

THERE  was  uproar  somewhere  among  the 
backyards  of  Austraha  Street.  It  was  so 
alarming  that  people  at  their  midday  meal  sat 
still  and  stared  at  one  another.  A  fortnight  before 
murder  had  been  done  in  the  street,  in  broad  daylight 
with  a  chopper;  people  were  nervous.  An  upper  win- 
dow was  thrown  open  and  a  startled  and  startling 
head  exposed. 

"It's  that  young  devil,  Johnny  Flynn.  again  !  Killing 
rats!"  shouted  Mrs.  Knatchbole,  shaking  her  fist 
towards  the  Flynns'  backyard.  Mrs.  Knatchbole  was 
ugly;  she  had  a  goitred  neck  and  a  sharp  skinny  nose 
with  an  orb  shining  at  its  end,  constant  as  grief. 

"You  wait,  my  boy,  till  your  mother  comes  home,  you 
just  wait!"  invited  this  apparition,  but  Johnny  was 
gazing  sickly  at  the  body  of  a  big  rat  slaughtered  by 
the  dogs  of  his  friend  George.  The  uproar  was  caused 
by  the  quarrelling  of  the  dogs,  possibly  for  honours, 
but  more  probably,  as  is  the  custom  of  victors,  for  loot. 

"Bob  down  I"  warned  George,  but  Johnny  bobbed  up 
to  catch  the  full  anger  of  those  baleful  Knatchbole 
eyes.     The  urchin  put  his  fingers  promptly  to  his  nose. 

"Look  at  that  for  eight  years  old !"  screamed  the  lady. 
207 


2o8  THE  CHERRY  TREE 

"Eight  years  old  'e  is !  As  true  as  God's  my  maker 
I'll  .  .  ." 

The  impending  vow  was  stayed  and  blasted  for  ever, 
Mrs.  Knatchbole  being  taken  with  a  fit  of  sneezing, 
whereupon  the  boys  uttered  some  derisive  "Haw 
haws !" 

So  Mrs.  Knatchbole  met  Mrs.  Flynn  that  night  as  she 
came  from  work,  Mrs.  Flynn  being  a  widow  who  toiled 
daily  and  dreadfully  at  a  laundry  and  perforce  left  her 
children,  except  for  their  school  hours,  to  their  own 
devices.  The  encounter  was  an  emphatic  one  and  the 
tired  widow  promised  to  admonish  her  boy. 

"But  it's  all  right,  Mrs.  Knatchbole,  he's  going  from 
me  in  a  week,  to  his  uncle  in  London  he  is  going,  a 
person  of  wealth,  and  he'll  be  no  annoyance  to  ye  then. 
I'm  ashamed  that  he  misbehaves  but  he's  no  bad  boy 
really." 

At  home  his  mother's  remonstrances  reduced  Johnny 
to  repentance  and  silence;  he  felt  base  indeed;  he 
wanted  to  do  something  great  and  worthy  at  once  to 
ofifset  it  all ;  he  wished  he  had  got  some  money,  he'd 
have  gone  and  bought  her  a  bottle  of  stout — he  knew 
she  liked  stout. 

"Why  do  ye  vex  people  so,  Johnny?"  asked  Mrs. 
Flynn  wearily.  "I  work  my  fingers  to  the  bone  for  ye, 
week  in  and  week  out.  Why  can't  ye  behave  like 
Pomony  ?'' 

His  sister  was  a  year  younger  than  he;  her  name 
was  Mona,  which  Johnny's  elegant  mind  had  disliked. 
One  day  he  re-baptized  her ;  Pomona  she  became  and 
Pomona  she  remained.     The  Flynns  sat  down  to  supper. 


THE  CHERRY   TREE  209 

"Never  mind,  mum,"  said  the  boy.  kissing  her  as  he 
passed,  "talk  to  us  ahoui  the  cherry  tree!"  The  cherry 
tree,  luxuriantly  blooming,  was  the  crown  of  the 
m.other's  memories  of  her  youth  and  her  father's  farm; 
around  the  myth  of  its  wonderful  blossoms  and  fruit 
she  could  weave  garlands  of  romance,  and  to  her  own 
mind  as  well  as  to  the  minds  of  her  children  it  became 
a  heavenly  symbol  of  her  old  lost  home,  grand  with 
acres  and  delightful  with  orchard  and  full  pantry. 
What  wonder  that  in  her  humorous  narration  the  joys 
were  multiplied  and  magnified  until  even  Johnny  was 
obliged  to  intervene,  "Look  here,  how  many  horses 
did  your  father  have,  mum  .  .  .  really,  though  ?"  Mrs. 
Flynn  became  vague,  cast  a  furtive  glance  at  this  son 
of  hers  and  then  gulped  with  laughter  until  she  recov- 
ered her  ground  with  "Ah,  but  there  was  a  cherry 
tree !"  It  was  a  grand  supper — actually  a  polony  and 
some  potatoes.  Johnny  knew  this  was  because  he  was 
going  away.  Ever  since  it  was  known  that  he  was  to  go 
to  London  they  had  been  having  something  special  like 
this,  or  sheep's  trotters  or  a  pig's  tail.  Mother  seemed 
to  grow  kinder  and  kinder  to  him.  He  wished  he  had 
some  money,  he  would  like  to  buy  her  a  bottle  of  stout 
— he  knew  she  liked  stout. 

Well,  Johnny  went  away  to  live  with  his  uncle,  l)ut 
alas  he  was  only  two  months  in  London  before  he  was 
returned  to  his  mother  and  Pomony.  Uncle  was  an 
engine-driver  who  disclosed  to  his  astounded  nephew 
a  passion  for  gardening.  This  was  incomprehensible  to 
Johnny  Flynn.  A  great  roaring  boiling  locomotive  was 
the  grandest  thing  in  the  world.  Johnny  had  rides  on 


2IO  THE  CHERRY  TREE 

it,  so  he  knew.  And  it  was  easy  for  him  to  imagine 
that  every  gardener  cherished  in  the  darkness  of  his 
disappointed  soul  an  unavaihng  passion  for  a  steam 
engine,  but  how  an  engine-driver  could  immerse  him- 
self in  the  mushiness  of  gardening  was  a  baffling  prob- 
lem. However,  before  he  returned  home  he  discovered 
one  important  thing  from  his  uncle's  hobby,  and  he  sent 
the  information  to  his  sister : 

Dear  Pomona — 

Uticle  Harry  has  got  a  alotment  and  grozv  veggu- 
tahlcs.  He  says  mhat  makes  the  mold  is  worms.  You 
knozv  we  pided  all  the  zvorms  out  off  our  garden  and 
chukked  them  over  Miss  Natchhols  tvall.  Well  you 
better  get  some  more  quick  a  lot  ask  George  to  help 
you  and  I  bring  som  seeds  home  zvhen  I  comes  next 
week  by  the  xcursion  on  Moms  birthday 

Your  sincerely  brother 

John  Flynn 

On  mother's  birthday  Pomona  met  him  at  the  station. 
She  kissed  him  shyly  and  explained  that  mother  was 
going  to  have  a  half  holiday  to  celebrate  the  double 
occasion  and  would  be  home  with  them  at  dinner  time. 
"Pomony,  did  you  get  them  worms?" 
Pomona  was  inclined  to  evade  the  topic  of  worms 
for  the  garden,  but  fortunately  her  brother's  enthusi- 
asm for  another  gardening  project  tempered  the  wind 
of  his  indignation.  When  they  reached  home  he  un- 
wrapped two  parcels  he  had  brought  with  him ;  he  ex- 
plained his  scheme  to  his  sister;  he  led  her  into  the 
garden.     The   Flynns'   backyard,   mostly   paved   with 


THE  CHERRY  TREE  21 1 

bricks,  was  small  and  so  the  enclosing  walls,  truculently 
capped  by  chips  of  glass,  although  too  low  for  privacy 
were  yet  too  high  for  the  growth  of  any  cherishable 
plant.  Johnny  had  certainly  once  reared  a  magnifi- 
cent exhibit  of  two  cowslips,  but  these  had  been  myste- 
riously destroyed  by  the  Knatchbole  cat.  The  dank 
little  enclosure  was  charged  with  sterility ;  nothing 
ilourished  there  except  a  lot  of  beetles  and  a  daunt- 
less evergreen  bush,  as  tall  as  Johnny,  displaying  a  pro- 
fusion of  thick  shiny  leaves  that  you  could  split  on 
your  tongue  and  make  squeakers  with.  Pomona 
showed  him  how  to  do  this  and  they  then  busied  them- 
selves in  the  garden  until  the  dinner  siren  warned  them 
that  Mother  would  be  coming  home.  They  hurried 
into  the  kitchen  and  Pomona  quickly  spread  the  cloth 
and  the  plates  of  food  upon  the  table,  while  Johnny 
placed  conspicuously  in  the  centre,  after  laboriously 
extracting  the  stopper  with  a  fork  and  a  hair-pin,  a 
bottle  of  stout  brought  from  London.  He  had  been 
much  impressed  by  numberless  advertisements  upon 
the  hoardings  respecting  this  attractive  beverage.  The 
children  then  ran  off  to  meet  their  mother  and  they 
all  came  home  together  with  great  hilarity.  Mrs. 
Flynn's  attention  having  been  immediately  drawn 
to  the  sinister  decoration  of  her  dining  table.  Po- 
mona was  requested  to  pour  out  a  glass  of  the 
nectar.  Johnny  handed  this  gravely  to  his  parent,  say- 
ing: 

"Many  hap])y  returns  of  the  day,  Mrs.  Flynn !" 
"O,   dear,  dear!"  gasped  his  mother  merrily,   "you 
drink  first!" 


212  THE  CHERRY  TREE 

"Excuse  me,  no,  Mrs.  Flyiin,"  rejoined  her  son, 
"many  happy  returns  of  the  day !" 

When  the  toast  had  been  honoured  Pomona  and 
Johnny  looked  tremendously  at  each  other. 

"Shall  we?"  exclaimed  Pomona. 

"O  yes,"  decided  Johnny;  "come  on,  mum,  in  the 
garden,  something  marvellous !" 

She  followed  her  children  into  that  dull  little  den, 
and  fortuitously  the  sun  shone  there  for  the  occasion. 
Behold,  the  dauntless  evergreen  bush  had  been 
stripped  of  its  leaves  and  upon  its  blossomless  twigs 
the  children  had  hung  numerous  couples  of  ripe 
cherries,  white  and  red  and  black. 

"What  do  you  think  of  it,  mum?"  cried  the  chil- 
dren, snatching  some  of  the  fruit  and  pressing  it  into 
her  hands,  "what  do  you  think  of  it  ?" 

"Beautiful!"  said  the  poor  woman  in  a  tremulous 
voice.  They  stared  silently  at  their  mother  until  she 
could  bear  it  no  longer.  She  turned  and  went  sobbing 
into  the  kitchen. 


CLORINDA  WALKS  IN  HEAVEN 


CLORINDA  WALKS  IN  HEAVEN 

MISS  SMITH,  Clorinda  Smith,  desired  not  to 
(lie  on  a  wet  day.  Her  speculations  upon 
the  possibilities  of  one's  demise  were  quite 
ingenuous  and  had  their  mirth,  but  she  shrunk  from 
that  figure  of  her  dim  little  soul — and  it  was  only 
dimly  that  she  could  figure  it  at  all — approaching  the 
pathways  of  the  Boundless  in  a  damp,  bedraggled  con- 
dition. 

"But  the  rain  couldn't  harm  your  spirit,"  declared 
her  comforting  friends. 

"Why  not?"  asked  Clorinda,  "if  there  is  a  ghost 
of  me,  why  not  a  ghost  of  the  rain?" 

There  were  other  aspects,  delectable  and  illusive, 
of  this  imagined  apotheosis,  but  Clorinda  always  hoped 
— against  hope  be  it  said — that  it  wouldn't  be  wet. 
On  three  evenings  there  had  been  a  bow  in  the  sky, 
and  on  the  day  she  died  rain  poured  in  fur>-.  With 
a  golden  key  she  unlocked  the  life  out  of  her  bosom 
and  moved  away  without  fear,  as  if  a  great  light  had 
sprung  suddenly  under  her  feet  in  a  little  dark  place, 
into  a  region  where  things  became  starkly  real  and  one 
seemed  to  live  like  the  beams  rolling  on  the  tasselled 
corn   in   windy  acres.     There  was  calmness   in  those 

215 


2l6         CLORINDA  WALKS   IN   HEAVEN 

translucent  leagues  and  the  undulation  amid  a  vast  im- 
placable light  until  she  drifted,  like  a  feather  fallen 
from  an  unguessed  star,  into  a  place  which  was  ex- 
traordinarily like  the  noon-day  world,  so  green  and 
warm  was  its  valley. 

A  little  combe  lay  between  some  low  hills  of  turf, 
and  on  a  green  bank  beside  a  few  large  rocks  was  a 
man  mending  a  ladder  of  white  new-shaven  willow 
studded  with  large  brass  nails,  mending  it  with  hard 
knocks  that  sounded  clearly.  The  horizon  was  ter- 
raced only  just  beyond  and  above  him,  for  the  hills 
rolled  steeply  up.  Thin  pads  of  wool  hung  in  the 
arch  of  the  ultimate  heavens,  but  towards  the  end  of 
the  valley  the  horizon  was  crowded  with  clouds 
torn  and  disbattled.  Two  cows,  a  cow  of  white  and 
a  cow  of  tan,  squatted  where  one  low  hill  held  up,  as 
it  were,  the  sunken  limits  of  the  sky.  There  were 
larks — in  such  places  the  lark  sings  for  ever — and 
thrushes — the  wind  vaguely  active — seven  white  ducks 
— a  farm.  Each  nook  was  a  flounce  of  blooms  and 
a  bower  for  birds.  Passing  close  to  the  man — he  was 
sad  and  preoccupied,  dressed  in  a  little  blue  tunic — she 
touched  his  arm  as  if  to  enquire  a  direction,  saying 
"Jacob !" 

She  did  not  know  what  she  would  have  asked  of 
him,  but  he  gave  her  no  heed  and  she  again  called  to 
him  "Jscob!"  He  did  not  seem  even  to  see  her,  so 
she  went  to  the  large  white  gates  at  the  end  of  the 
valley  and  approached  a  railway  crossing.  She  had 
to  wait  a  long  time  for  trains  of  a  vastness  and  gran- 
deur were  passing,   passing  without  sound.     Strange 


Cr.ORINDA  WALKS   IN   HEAVEN  217 

advertisements  on  the  hoardings  and  curious  direction 
posts  gathered  some  of  her  attention.  She  observed 
that  in  every  possible  situation,  on  any  available  post 
or  stone,  people  had  carved  initials,  sometimes  a  whole 
name,  often  with  a  date,  and  Clorinda  experienced 
a  doubt  of  the  genuineness  of  some  of  these  so  remote 
was  the  antiquity  implied.  At  last,  the  trains  were 
all  gone  by.  and  as  the  barriers  swung  back  she  crossed 
the  permanent  way. 

There  was  neither  ambiguity  in  her  movements  nor 
surprise  in  her  apprehensions.  She  just  crossed  over 
to  a  group  of  twenty  or  thirty  men  who  moved  to 
welcome  her.  They  were  barelegged,  sandal-footed, 
lightly  clad  in  beautiful  loose  tunics  of  peacock  and 
cinnamon,  which  bore  not  so  much  the  significance 
of  colour  as  the  quality  of  light;  one  of  them  rushed 
eagerly  forward,  crying  "Gorinda!"  oflFering  to  her 
a  long  coloured  scarf.  Strangely,  as  he  came  closer, 
he  grew^  less  perceivable ;  Clorinda  was  aware  in  a 
flash  that  she  was  viewing  him  by  some  other  mechan- 
ism than  that  of  her  two  eyes.  In  a  moment  he  utterly 
disappeared  and  she  felt  herself  wrapt  into  his  being, 
caressed  with  faint  caresses,  and  troubled  with  dim 
faded  ecstasies  and  recognitions  not  wholly  agreeable. 
The  other  men  stood  grouped  around  them,  glancing 
with  half -closed  cynical  eyes.  Those  who  stood  far-| 
thest  away  were  more  clearly  ^seen :  in  contiguity  a 
presence  could  only  be  divined,  resting  only — but  how 
admiral)ly  ! — in  the  nurture  of  one's  mind.  ___,' 

"What  is  it  ?"  Clorinda  asked :  and  all  the  voices 
replied,  "Yes,  we  know  you!" 


2l8    CLORINDA  WALKS  IN  HEAVEN 

She  felt  herself  released,  and  the  figure  of  the  man 
rejoined  the  waiting  group,  "I  was  your  husband 
Reuben,"  said  the  first  man  slowly,  and  Clorinda,  who 
had  been  a  virgin  throughout  her  short  life,  exclaimed 
"Yes,  yes,  dear  Reuben !"  with  momentary  tremors 
and  a  queer  fugitive  drift  of  doubt.  She  stood  there, 
a  spook  of  comprehending  being,  and  all  the  uncharted 
reefs  in  the  map  of  her  mind  were  anxiously  engaging 
her.  For  a  time  she  was  absorbed  by  this  new  knowl- 
edge. 

Then  another  voice  spoke : 

"I  was  your  husband  Raphael !" 

"I  know,  I  know,"  said  Clorinda,  turning  to  the 
speaker,  "we  lived  in  Judea." 

"And  we  dwelt  in  the  valley  of  the  Nile,"  said  an- 
other, "in  the  years  that  are  gone." 

"And  I  too  .  .  .  and  I  too  .  .  .  and  I  too,"  they  all 
clamoured,  turning  angrily  upon  themselves. 

Clorinda  pulled  the  strange  scarf  from  her  shoulders 
where  Reuben  had  left  it,  and,  handling  it  so,  she 
became  aware  of  her  many  fugitive  sojournings  upon 
the  earth.  It  seemed  that  all  of  her  past  had  become 
knit  in  the  scarf  into  a  compact  pattern  of  beauty 
and  ugliness  of  which  she  was  entirely  aware,  all 
its  multiplexity  being  immediately  resolved  .  .  .  the 
habitations  with  cave  men,  and  the  lesser  human  unit  of 
the  lesser  later  day.  Patagonian,  Indian,  Cossack,  Poly- 
nesian, Jew  ...  of  such  stuff  the  pattern  was  intimately 
woven,  and  there  were  little  plangent  perfect  moments 
of  the  past  that  fell  into  order  in  the  web.  Clorinda 
watching   the   great    seabird    with    pink    feet   louting 


CLORINDA  WALKS   IN   HEAVEN  219 

above  the  billows  that  roared  upon  Iceland,  or  Clo- 
rinda  hanging-  her  girdle  upon  the  ebony  hooks  of  the 
image  of  Tanteelee.  She  had  taken  voyaging  drafts 
upon  the  whole  world,  cataract  jungle  and  desert,  ingle 
and  pool  and  strand,  ringing  the  changes  upon  a  whole  'a 
gamut  of  masculine  endeavour  .  .  .  from  a  prophet 
to  a  haberdasher.  She  could  feel  each  little  life  lying 
now  as  in  a  sarsnet  of  cameos  upon  her  visible  breasts : 
thereby  for  these  .  .  .  these  men  .  .  .  she  was  draped 
in  an  eternal  wonder.  But  she  could  not  recall  any 
image  of  her  past  life  in  these  realms,  save  only  that 
her  scarf  was  given  back  to  her  on  every  return  by  / 
a  man  of  these  men. 

She  could  remember  with  humility  her  transient 
passions  for  them  all.  None,  not  one,  had  ever  given 
her  the  measure  of  her  own  desire,  a  strong  harsh  flame 
that  fashioned  and  tempered  its  own  body;  nothing 
but  a  nebulous  glow  that  was  riven  into  embers  before 
its  beam  had  sweetened  into  pride.  She  had  gone 
from  them  childless  always  and  much  as  a  little  child. 

From  the  crowd  of  quarrelling  ghosts  a  new  figure 
detached  itself,  and  in  its  approach  it  subdued  that 
■vague  vanishing  which  had  been  so  perplexing  to  Clo- 
rinda.  Out  of  tlie  crowd  it  slipped,  and  loomed  lov- 
ingly beside  her,  took  up  her  thought  and  the  inter- 
rogation that  came  into  her  mind. 

"No,"  it  said  gravely,  "there  is  none  greater  than 
these.  The  ultimate  reaches  of  man's  mind  produce 
nothing  but  images  of  men." 

"But,"  said  Clorinda,  "do  you  mean  that  our  ideals, 
previsions  of  a  vita-nuova  .  .  ." 


220    CLORINDA  WALKS  IN  HEAVEN 

"Just  so,"  it  continued,  "a  mere  intoxication.  Even 
here  you  cannot  escape  the  singular  dower  of  dreams 
.  .  .  you  can  be  drunk  with  dreams  more  easily  and 
more  permanently  than  with  drugs." 

The  group  of  husbands  had  ceased  their  quarrelling 
to  listen;  Clorinda  swept  them  with  her  glances 
thoughtfully  and  doubtfully. 

"Could  mankind  be  so  poor,"  the  angel  resumed,  "as 
poor  as  these,  if  it  housed  something  greater  than  it- 
self ?" 

With  a  groan  the  group  of  flutworn  husbands  drew 
away.  Clorinda  turned  to  her  companion  with  dis- 
appointment and  some  dismay.  ...  "I  hardly  under- 
stand yet  ...  is  this  all  then  just  .  .  ." 

"Yes,"  it  replied,  "just  the  ghost  of  the  world." 

She  turned  unhappily  and  looked  back  across  the 
gateway  into  the  fair  combe  with  its  cattle,  its  fine 
grass,  and  the  man  working  diligently  therein.  A  sense 
of  bleak  loneliness  began  to  possess  her;  here,  then, 
was  no  difference  save  that  there  were  no  correlations, 
no  consequences ;  nothing  had  any  effect  except  to 
produce  the  ghost  of  a  ghost.  There  was  already  in 
the  hinterland  of  her  apprehensions  a  ghost,  a  ghost  of 
her  new  ghostship :  she  was  to  be  followed  by  heraelf , 
pursued  by  figures  of  her  own  ceaseless  being ! 

She  looked  at  the  one  by  her  side :  "Who  are  you  ?" 
she  asked,  and  at  the  question  the  group  of  men  drew 
again  very  close  to  them. 

"I  am  your  unrealized  desires,"  it  said:  "Did  you 
think  that  the  dignity  of  virginhood,  rarely  and  deliber- 


CLORINDA  WALKS   IN   HEAVEN  221 

ately  chosen,  could  be  so  brief  and  barren?  Why,  that 
pure  idea  was  my  own  immaculate  birth,  and  I  was 
born,  the  hving  mate  of  you.'^^ 

The  hungry-eyed  men  shouted  with  laughter. 

"Go  away !"  screamed  Clorinda  to  them ;  "I  do  not 
want  you." 

Although  they  went  she  could  hear  the  echoes  of 
their  sneering  as  she  took  the  arm  of  her  new  lover, 
"Let  us  go,"  she  said,  pointing  to  the  man  in  the  combe, 
"and  speak  to  him."  As  they  approached  the  man  he 
lifted  his  ladder  hugely  in  the  air  and  dashed  it  to  the 
ground  so  passionately  that  it  broke. 

"Angry  man !  angry  man !"  mocked  Clorinda.  He 
turned  towards  her  fiercely.  Clorinda  began  to  fear 
him ;  the  muscles  and  knots  of  his  limbs  were  uncouth 
like  the  gnarl  of  old  trees;  she  made  a  little  pretence 
of  no  more  observing  him. 

"Now  what  is  it  like,"  said  she  jocularly  to  the  angel 
at  her  side,  and  speaking  of  her  old  home,  "what  is  it 
like  now  at  Weston-super-Mare?" 

At  that  foolish  question  the  man  with  the  ladder 
reached  forth  an  ugly  hand  and  twitched  the  scarf 
from  her  slioulders. 

It  cannot  now  be  told  to  what  remoteness  she  had 
come,  or  on  what  roads  her  undirected  feet  had  trav- 
elled there,  but  certain  it  is  that  in  that  moment  she 
was  gone.  .  .  .  Why,  where,  or  how  cannot  be  estab- 
lished: whether  she  was  swung  in  a  blast  of  annihila- 
tion into  the  uttermost  gulfs,  or  withdrawn  for  iier 
beauty  into  that  mysterious  Nox,  into  some  passionate 


222    CLORINDA  WALKS  IN  HEAVEN 

communion  with  the  eternal  husbands,  or  into  some 
eternal  combat  with  their  passionate  other  wives  .  .  . 
from  our  scrutiny  at  least  she  passed  for  ever.. 

It  is  true  there  was  a  beautiful  woman  of  this 
name  who  lay  for  a  month  in  a  deep  trance  in  the 
West  of  England.  On  her  recovery  she  was  balladed 
about  in  the  newspapers  and  upon  the  halls  for  quite  a 
time,  and  indeed  her  notoriety  brought  requests  for  her 
autograph  from  all  parts  of  the  world,  and  an  offer 
of  marriage  from  a  Quaker  potato  merchant.  But 
she  tenderly  refused  him  and  became  one  of  those 
faded  grey  old  maids  who  wear  their  virginity  like 
antiquated  armour. 


CRAVEN  ARMS 


CRAVEN  ARMS 


THE  teacher  of  the  sketching  class  at  the  eve- 
ning school  was  a  man  who  had  no  great  ca- 
pacity for  enduring  affection,  but  his  hand- 
some appearance  often  inspired  in  women  those  emo- 
tions which  if  not  enduring  are  deep  and  disturbing. 
His  own  passions  may  have  been  deep  but  they  were 
undeniably  fickle. 

The  townspeople  were  proud  of  their  new  school 
for  in  addition  to  the  daily  curriculum  evening  instruc- 
tion of  an  advanced  modern  kind  was  given.  Of 
course  all  schools  since  the  beginning  of  time  have  been 
modern  at  some  period  of  their  existence  but  this  one 
was  modern,  so  the  vicar  declared,  because  it  was  so 
blessedly  hygienic.  It  was  built  upon  a  high  tree- 
arboured  slope  overlooking  the  snug  small  town  and  on 
its  western  side  stared  ambiguously  at  a  free  upland 
country  that  was  neither  small  nor  snug.  The  seven- 
teen young  women  and  the  nine  young  men  were  defi- 
nitely, indeed  articulately,  inarti.stic,  they  were  as  un- 
testhetic  as  pork  pies,  all  except  Julia  Tern,  a  golden- 
haired  fine-complexioned  fawn  of  a  girl  whose  talent 

225 


226  CRAVEN  ARMS 

was  already  beyond  the  reach  of  any  instruction  the 
teacher  could  give.  He  could  not  understand  why  she 
continued  to  attend  his  classes. 

One  evening  she  brought  for  his  criticism  a  portrait 
sketch  of  himself. 

"This  is  extraordinarily  beautiful,"  he  murmured. 

"Yes?"  said  Julia. 

"I  mean  the  execution,  the  presentation  and  so 
on." 

Julia  did  not  reply.  He  stared  at  her  picture  of  him, 
a  delicately  modelled  face  with  a  suggestion  of  nobil- 
ity, an  air  that  was  kind  as  it  was  grave.  The  gravity 
and  nobility  which  so  pleased  him  were  perhaps  the 
effect  of  a  high  brow  from  which  the  long  brown  hair 
flowed  thinly  back  to  curve  in  a  tidy  cluster  at  his 
neck.  Kindness  beamed  in  the  eyes  and  played  around 
the  thin  mouth,  sharp  nose,  and  positive  chin.  What 
could  have  inspired  her  to  make  this  idealization  of 
himself,  for  it  was  idealization  in  spite  of  its  fidelity 
and  likeness?  He  knew  he  had  little  enough  nobility 
of  character — too  little  to  show  so  finely — and  as  for 
that  calm  gravity  of  aspect,  why  gravity  simply  was 
not  in  him.  But  there  it  was  on  paper,  deliberate  and 
authentic,  inscribed  with  his  name — David  Masterman 
19 10. 

"When,  how  did  you  come  to  do  it?" 

"I  just  wanted  it,  you  were  a  nice  piece,  I  watched 
you  a  good  deal,  and  there  you  are !"  She  said  it  jaun- 
tily but  there  was  a  pink  flush  in  her  cheeks. 

"It's  delicious,"  he  mused,  "I  envy  you.  I  can't 
touch  a  decent  head — not  even  yours.     But  why  have 


CRAVEN  ARMS  227 

you  idealized  me  so?"  He  twitted  her  lightly  about 
the  gravity  and  nobility. 

"But  you  are  like  that,  you  are.  That's  how  I  see 
you,  at  this  moment." 

She  did  not  give  him  the  drawing  as  he  hoped  she 
would.  He  did  not  care  to  ask  her  for  it — there  was 
delicious  flattery  in  the  thought  that  .she  treasured  it  so 
much.  Masterman  was  a  rather  solitary  man  of  about 
thirty,  with  a  modest  income  which  he  supplemented 
with  the  fees  from  these  classes.  He  lived  alone  in  a 
wooden  bungalow  away  out  of  the  town  and  painted 
numbers  of  landscapes,  rather  lifeless  imitations,  as  he 
knew,  of  other  men's  masterpieces.  They  were 
frequently  sold. 

Sometimes  on  summer  afternoons  he  would  go  into 
woods  or  fields  with  a  few  of  his  pupils  to  sketch  or 
paint  farmhouses,  trees,  clouds,  stacks,  and  other  rural 
furniture.  He  was  always  hoping  to  sit  alone  with 
Julia  Tern  but  there  were  other  loyal  pupils  who  never 
missed  these  occasions,  among  them  the  two  Forrest 
girls,  Tanthe  the  younger,  and  Katharine,  daughters  of 
a  thriving  contractor.  Julia  remained  inscrutable,  she 
gave  him  no  opportunities  at  all ;  he  could  never  divine 
her  feelings  or  gather  any  response  to  his  own.  but 
there  could  be  no  doubt  of  the  feelings  of  the  Forrest 
girls — they  quite  certainly  liked  him  enormously.  Ex- 
cept for  that,  they  too,  could  have  no  reason  for  con- 
tinuing in  his  classes  for  both  were  as  devoid  of  artis- 
tic grace  as  an  inkstand.  They  brought  fruit  or  choc- 
olate to  the  classes  and  shared  them  with  him.  Their 
attentions,  their  mutual  attentions,  were  manifested  in 


228  CRAVEN  ARMS 

many  ways,  small  but  significant  and  kind.  On  these 
occasions  Julia's  eyes  seemed  to  rest  upon  him  with  an 
ironical  gaze.  It  was  absurd.  He  liked  them  well 
enough  and  sometimes  from  his  shy  wooing  of  the 
adorable  but  enigmatic  Julia  he  would  turn  for  solace 
to  lanthe.  Yet  strangely  enough  it  was  Kate,  the  least 
alluring  to  him  of  the  three  girls,  who  took  him  to 
her  melancholy  heart. 

lanthe  was  a  little  bud  of  womanhood,  dark-haired 
but  light-headed,  dressed  in  cream  coloured  clothes. 
She  was  small  and  right  and  tight,  without  angularities 
or  rhythms,  just  one  dumpy  solid  roundness.  But  she 
had  an  astonishing  vulgarity  of  speech,  if  not  of  mind, 
that  exacerbated  him  and  in  the  dim  corridors  of  his 
imagination  she  did  not  linger,  she  scurried  as  it  were 
into  doorways  or  upon  twisting  staircases  or  stood 
briefly  where  a  loop  of  light  fell  upon  her  hair,  her 
dusky  face,  her  creamy  clothes,  and  her  delightful 
rotundities.  She  had  eyes  of  indiscretion  and  a  mind 
like  a  hive  of  bees,  it  had  such  a  tiny  opening  and  was 
so  full  of  a  cloying  content. 

One  day  he  suddenly  found  himself  alone  with  lanthe 
in  a  glade  of  larch  trees  which  they  had  all  been  sketch- 
ing. They  had  loitered.  He  had  been  naming  wild 
flowers  which  lanthe  had  picked  for  the  purpose  and 
then  thrown  wantonly  away.  She  spied  a  single  plant 
of  hellebore  growing  in  the  dimness  under  the  closely 
planted  saplings. 

"Don't !  don't !"  he  cried.  He  kept  her  from  pluck- 
ing it  and  they  knelt  down  together  to  admire  the  white 
virginal  flower. 


CRAVEN  ARMS  229 

His  arm  fell  round  lanthe's  waist  in  a  light  casual 
way.  He  scarcely  realized  its  presumption.  He  had 
not  intended  to  do  it;  as  far  as  that  went  he  did  not 
particularly  want  to  do  it,  but  there  his  arm  was. 
lanthe  took  no  notice  of  the  embrace  and  he  felt  fool- 
ish, he  could  not  retreat  until  they  rose  to  walk  on ; 
then  lanthe  pressed  close  to  his  side  until  his  arm  once 
more  stole  round  her  and  they  kissed. 

"Heavens  above!"  she  said,  "you  do  get  away  with  it 
quick." 

"Life's  short,  there's  no  time  to  lose,  I  do  as  I'd 
he  done  by." 

"And  there  are  so  many  of  us!  But  glory,"  said 
the  jolly  girl,  taking  him  to  her  bosom,  "in  for  a  penny, 
in  for  a  pound." 

She  did  not  pick  any  more  flowers  and  soon  they 
were  out  of  the  wood  decorously  joining  the  others. 
He  imagined  that  Julia's  gaze  was  full  of  irony,  and 
the  timid  wonder  in  Kate's  eyes  moved  him  uncom- 
fortably. There  was  something  idiotic  in  the  whole 
afTair. 

Until  the  end  of  the  summer  he  met  lanthe  often 
enough  in  the  little  town  or  the  city  three  miles  off. 
Her  uncouthness  still  repelled  him ;  sometimes  he  dis- 
liked her  completely,  but  she  was  always  happy  to  be 
with  him.  charmingly  fond  and  gay  witli  all  the  en- 
dearing alertness  of  a  pert  bird. 

Her  sister  Kate  was  not  just  the  mere  female  that 
lanthe  was;  at  once  sterner  and  softer  her  passions 
were  more  strong  but  their  defences  stood  solid  as  a 
rock.     In  spite  of  her  reserve  she  was  always  on  the 


230  CRAVEN  ARMS 

brink  of  her  emotions  and  they,  unhappily  for  her, 
were  often  not  transient,  but  enduring.  She  was 
nearly  thirty,  still  unwed.  Her  dark  beauty,  for  she, 
too,  was  fine,  seemed  to  brood  in  melancholy  over  his 
attentions  to  the  other  two  women.  She  was  quiet, 
she  had  little  to  say,  she  seemed  to  stand  and  wait. 
One  autumn  night  at  the  school  after  the  pupils  had 
gone  home  he  walked  into  the  dim  lobby  for  his  hat  and 
coat.  Kate  Forrest  was  there.  She  stood  with  her 
back  to  him  adjusting  her  hat.  She  did  not  say  a  word 
nor  did  he  address  her.  They  were  almost  touching 
each  other,  there  was  a  pleasant  scent  about  her.  In  the 
classroom  behind  the  caretaker  was  walking  about  the 
hollow-sounding  floor,  humming  loudly  as  he  clapped 
down  windows  and  mounted  the  six  chairs  to  turn  out 
the  six  gas  lamps.  When  the  last  light  through  the 
glazed  door  was  gone  and  the  lobby  was  completely 
dark  Kate  all  at  once  turned  to  him,  folded  him  in  her 
arms,  and  held  him  to  her  breast  for  one  startling 
moment,  then  let  him  go,  murmuring  O  .  .  .  O  .  .  . 
It  made  him  strangely  happy.  He  pulled  her  back  in 
the  gloom,  whispering  tender  words.  They  walked 
out  of  the  hall  into  the  dark  road  and  stopped  to  con- 
front each  other.  The  road  was  empty  and  dark  ex- 
cept for  a  line  of  gas  lamps  that  gleamed  piercingly 
bright  in  the  sharp  air  and  on  the  polished  surface  of 
the  road  that  led  back  from  the  hill  down  past  her 
father's  villa.  There  were  no  lamps  in  the  opposite 
direction  and  the  road  groped  its  way  out  into  the  dark 
country  where  he  lived,  a  mile  beyond  the  town.     It 


CRAVEN  ARMS  23  I 

was  windy  and  some  unseen  trees  behind  a  wall  near 
them  swung  and  tossed  with  many  pleasant  sounds. 

"I  will  come  a  little  way  with  you,"  Kate  said. 

"Yes,  come  a  little  way,"  he  whispered,  pressing 
her  arm,  "I'll  come  back  with  you." 

She  took  his  arm  and  they  turned  towards  the  coun- 
try. He  could  think  of  nothing  to  say,  he  was  utterly 
subdued  by  his  surprise ;  Kate  was  sad,  even  moody ; 
but  at  last  she  said  slowly :  "I  am  unlucky,  I  always 
fall  in  love  with  men  who  can't  love  me." 

"O  but  I  can  and  do,  dear  Kate,"  he  cried  lightly. 
"Love  me,  Kate,  go  on  loving  me,  I'm  not,  well,  I'm 
not  very  wicked." 

"No,  no,  you  do  not."  She  shook  her  head  mourn- 
fully :  after  a  few  moments  she  added :  "It's  Julia 
Tern." 

He  was  astounded.  How  could  she  have  known 
this,  how  could  any  one  have  known — even  Julia  her- 
self? It  was  queer  that  she  did  not  refer  to  his  friend- 
ship with  lanthe;  he  thought  that  was  much  more 
obvious  than  his  love  for  Julia.  In  a  mood  that  he 
only  half  understood  he  began  to  deny  her  reproach- 
ful charge. 

"Why,  you  must  think  me  very  fickle  indeed.  I 
really  love  you,  dear  Kate,  really  you."  His  arm  was 
around  her  neck,  he  smoothed  her  cheek  fondly  against 
his  own.  She  returned  his  caresses  but  he  could 
glimpse  the  melancholy  doubt  in  her  averted  eyes. 

"We  often  talk  of  you,  we  often  talk  of  you  at  night, 
in  bed,  often." 


232  CRAVEN  ARMS 

"What  do  you  say  about  me — in  bed?    Who?" 

"lanthe  and  me.     She  likes  you." 

"She  likes  me!  What  do  you  say  about  me — in 
bed?" 

He  hoped  lanthe  had  not  been  indiscreet  but  Kate 
only  said :  "She  doesn't  like  you  as  I  do — not  like  this." 

Soon  they  began  to  walk  back  toward  the  town.  He 
smiled  once  when,  as  their  footsteps  clattered  unregu- 
larly  upon  the  hard  clean  road,  she  skipped  to  adjust 
the  fall  of  her  steps  to  his. 

"Do  not  come  any  further,"  she  begged  as  they 
neared  the  street  lamps.  "It  doesn't  matter,  not  at  all, 
what  I've  said  to  you.  It  will  be  all  right.  I  shall 
see  you  again." 

Once  more  she  put  her  arms  around  his  neck  mur- 
muring :  "Goodnight,  goodnight,  goodnight." 

He  watched  her  tripping  away.  When  he  turned 
homewards  his  mind  was  full  of  thoughts  that  were 
only  dubiously  pleasant.  It  was  all  very  sweet,  sur- 
prisingly sweet,  but  it  left  him  uneasy.  He  managed 
to  light  a  cigarette,  but  the  wind  blew  smoke  into  his 
eyes,  tore  the  charred  end  into  fiery  rags  and  tossed 
the  sparkles  across  his  shoulder.  If  it  had  only  been 
Julia  Tern ! — or  even  lanthe ! — he  would  have  been 
wholly  happy,  but  this  was  disturbing.  Kate  was  good- 
looking  but  these  quietly  passionate  advances  amazed 
him.  Why  had  he  been  so  responsive  to  her?  He 
excused  himself,  it  was  quite  simple;  you  could  not 
let  a  woman  down,  a  loving  woman  like  that,  not  at 
once,  a  man  should  be  kind.     But  what  did  she  mean 


CRAVEN  ARMS  233 

when  she  spoke  of  always  falh'ng  in  love  with  men 
who  did  not  like  her?  He  tossed  the  cigarette  away 
and  turned  up  the  collar  of  his  coat  for  the  faintest 
fall  of  warm  rain  blew  against  his  face  like  a  soft 
beautiful  net.  He  thrust  his  hands  into  his  pockets  and 
walked  sharply  and  forgettingly  home. 


II 


Two  mile?  away  from  the  little  town  was  the  big  city 
with  tramways,  electric  light,  factories,  canals,  and  tens 
of  thousands  of  people,  where  a  few  nights  later  he 
met  lanthe.  Walking  around  and  away  from  the  happy 
lighted  streets  they  came  out  upon  the  bank  of  a  canal 
where  darkness  and  loneliness  were  intensified  by  the 
silent  passage  of  black  water  whose  current  they  could 
divine  but  could  not  see.  As  they  stepped  warily 
along  the  unguarded  bank  he  embraced  her.  Even  as 
he  did  so  he  cursed  himself  for  a  fool  to  be  so  fond 
of  this  wretched  imp  of  a  girl.  In  his  heart  he  believed 
he  disliked  her,  but  he  was  not  sure.  She  was  childish, 
artful,  luscious,  stupid — this  was  no  gesture  for  a  man 
with  any  standards.  Silently  clutching  each  other  they 
approached  an  iron  bridge  with  lamps  upon  it  and  a 
lighted  factory  beyond  it.  The  softly-moving  water 
could  now  be  seen — the  lamps  on  the  bridge  let  down 
thick  rods  of  light  into  its  quiet  depths  and  beyond  the 
arch  the  windows  of  the  factory,  inverted  in  the  stream, 
bloomed  like  baskets  of  fire  with  flaming  fringes  among 
the  eddies  caused  by  the  black  pillars.  A  boy  shuffled 
across  the  bridge  whistling  a  tune ;  there  was  the  rumble 


234  CRAVEN  ARMS 

and  trot  of  a  cab.  Then  all  sounds  melted  into  a  quiet 
without  one  wave  of  air.  The  unseen  couple  had 
kissed,  lanthe  was  replying  to  him : 

"No,  no,  I  like  it,  I  like  you."  She  put  her  brow 
against  his  breast.     "I  like  you,  I  like  you." 

His  embracing  hand  could  feel  the  emotion  stream- 
ing within  the  girl. 

"Do  you  like  me  better  than  her?" 

"Than  whom?"  he  asked. 

lanthe  was  coy.     "You  know,  you  know." 

Masterman's  feelings  were  a  mixture  of  perturba- 
tion and  delight,  delight  at  this  manifestation  of 
jealousy  of  her  sister  which  was  an  agreeable  thing, 
anyway,  for  it  implied  a  real  depth  of  regard  for  him ; 
but  he  was  perturbed  for  he  did  not  know  what  Kate 
had  told  this  sister  of  their  last  strange  meeting.  He 
saluted  her  again  exclaiming:  "Never  mind  her. 
This  is  our  outing,  isn't  it?" 

"I  don't  like  her,"  lanthe  added  naively,  "she  is  so 
awfully  fond  of  you." 

"O  confound  her,"  he  cried,  and  then,  "you  mustn't 
mind  me  saying  that  so,  so  sharply,  you  don't  mind, 
do  you?" 

lanthe's  lips  were  soft  and  sweet.  Sisters  were 
quite  unscrupulous,  Masterman  had  heard  of  such 
cases  before,  but  he  had  tenderness  and  a  reluctance  to 
wound  anybody's  susceptibility,  let  alone  the  feelings 
of  a  woman  who  loved.  He  was  an  artist  not  only  in 
paint,  but  in  sentiment,  and  it  is  possible  that  he  ex- 
celled in  the  less  tangible  medium. 

"It's  a  little  awkward,"  he  ventured.     lanthe  didn't 


CRAVEN  ARMS  235 

understand,     she     didn't     understand     that     at     all. 

"The  difficulty,  you  see,"  he  said  with  the  air  of  one 
handlino;  whimsically  a  question  of  perplexity  that  yet 
yielded  its  amusement,   "is  ...  is  Kate." 

"Kate?"  said  lanthe. 

"She  is  so — so  gone,  so  absolutely  gone." 

"Gone?" 

"Well,  she's  really  really  in  love,  deeply,  deeply," 
he  said  looking  away  anywhere  but  at  her  sister's 
eyes. 

"With  Chris  Halton,  do  you  mean?" 

"Ho,  ho !"  he  laughed,  "Halton !  Lord,  no,  with  me, 
with  me,  isn't  she  ?" 

"With  you !" 

But  lanthe  was  quite  positive  even  a  little  ironical 
about  that.  "She  is  not,  she  rather  dislikes  you,  Mr. 
Prince  Charming,  so  there.  We  speak  of  you  some- 
times at  night  in  bed — we  sleep  together.  She  knows 
what  /  think  of  you  but  she's  quite,  well  she  doesn't 
like  you  at  all — she  acts  the  heavy  sister." 

"O,"  said  Masterman,  groping  as  it  were  for  some 
light  in  his  darkness. 

"She — what  do  you  think — she  warns  me  against 
you,"  lanthe  continued. 

"Against  me?" 

"As  if  I  care.     Do  you?" 

"No,  no.     I  don't  care." 

They  left  the  dark  bank  where  they  had  been  stand- 
ing and  walked  along  to  the  bridge.  Halfway  up  its 
steps  to  the  road  he  paused  and  asked :  "Then  who  is  it 
that  is  so  fond  of  me?" 


236  CRAVEN  ARMS 

"O  you  know,  you  know."  lanthe  nestled  blissfully 
in  his  arm  again. 

"No,  but  who  is  it,  I  may  be  making  another  howler. 
I  thought  you  meant  Kate,  what  did  she  warn  you  of, 
I  mean  against  me?" 

They  were  now  in  the  streets  again,  walking  towards 
the  tram  centre.  The  shops  were  darkened  and  closed, 
but  the  cinemas  lavished  their  unwanted  illuminations 
on  the  street.  There  were  no  hurrying  people,  there 
was  just  strolling  ease;  the  policemen  at  corners  were 
chatting  to  other  policemen  now  in  private  clothes. 
The  brilliant  trams  rumbled  and  clanged  and  stopped, 
the  saloons  were  full  and  musical. 

"What  did  she  warn  you  against?"  he  repeated. 

"You,"  chuckled  lanthe. 

"But  what  about?     What  has  she  got  against  me?" 

"Everything.  You  know,  you  know  you  do."  The 
archness  of  lanthe  was  objectively  baffling  but  under 
it  all  he  read  its  significance,  its  invitation. 

He  waited  beside  her  for  a  tram  but  when  it  came 
he  pleaded  a  further  engagement  in  the  city.  He  had 
no  other  engagement,  he  only  wanted  to  be  alone,  to 
sort  out  the  things  she  had  dangled  before  his  mind, 
so  he  boarded  the  next  car  and  walked  from  the  Tutsan 
terminus  to  his  cottage.  Both  girls  were  fond  of  him, 
then — lanthe's  candour  left  him  no  room  for  doubt — 
and  they  were  both  lying  to  each  other  about  him. 
Well,  he  didn't  mind  that,  lies  were  a  kind  of  protective 
colouring,  he  lied  himself  whenever  it  was  necessary, 
or  suited  him.  Not  often,  but  truth  was  not  always 
possible  to   sensitive  minded  men.    Why,   after  all, 


CRAVEN  ARMS  237 

should  sympathetic  mendacity  be  a  monopoly  of  polite 
society  ?  "But  it's  also  the  trick  of  thieves  and  seducers, 
David  Masterman,"  he  muttered  to  himself.  "I'm  not 
a  th!ef,  no,  I'm  not  a  thief.  As  for  the  o*^^her  thing, 
well,  what  is  there  against  me — nothing,  nothing  at  all." 
But  a  strange  voiceless  sigh  seemed  to  echo  from  the 
trees  along  the  dark  road,  "Not  as  yet,  not  as  yet." 

He  walked  on  more  rapidly. 

Three  women !  There  was  no  doubt  about  the 
third,  lanthe  had  tliought  of  Julia,  too,  just  as  Kate 
had.  What  a  fate  for  a  misogamist!  He  felt  like  a 
mouse  being  taken  for  a  ride  in  a  bath  chair.  He  had 
an  invincible  prejudice  against  marriage  not  as  an  in- 
stitution but  because  he  was  perfectly  aware  of  his 
incapacity  for  faithfulness.  His  emotions  were  deep 
but  unprolonged.  Love  was  love,  but  marriage  turned 
love  into  the  stone  of  Sisyphus.  At  the  sound  of  the 
marriage  bell — a  passing  bell — earth  at  his  feet  would 
burst  into  flame  and  the  sky  above  would  pour  upon 
him  an  unquenching  profusion  of  tears.  Love  was  a 
fine  and  enno])ling  thing,  but  though  he  had  the  will  to 
love  he  knew  beyond  the  possibility  of  doubt  that  his 
own  capacity  for  love  was  a  meandering  strengthless 
thing.  Even  his  loyalty  to  Julia  Tern — and  that  had  the 
strongest  flavour  of  any  emotion  that  had  ever  beset 
him,  no  matter  how  brief  its  term — even  that  was  a 
deviating  zigzag  loyalty.  For  he  wanted  to  go  on  be- 
ing jolly  and  friendly  with  lanthe  if  only  Julia  did 
not  get  to  know.  With  Kate,  too.  that  tender  melan- 
choly woman ;  she  would  be  vastly  unhappv.  Who 
was  this  Christopher  whom  lanthe  fondly  imagined  her 


238  CRAVEN  ARMS 

sister  to  favour?  Whoever  he  was,  poor  devil,  he 
would  not  thank  D.  M.  for  his  intervention.  But  he 
would  drop  all  this ;  however  had  he,  of  all  men,  come 
to  be  plunged  so  suddenly  into  a  state  of  things  for 
which  he  had  shown  so  little  fancy  in  the  past?  Julia 
would  despise  him,  she  would  be  sure  to  despise  him, 
sure  to;  and  yet  if  he  could  only  believe  she  would 
not  it  would  be  pleasant  to  go  on  being  friendly  with 
lanthe  pending  .  .  .  pending  what? 

Masterman  was  a  very  pliant  man,  but  as  things 
shaped  themselves  for  him  he  did  not  go  a  step  further 
with  lanthe,  and  it  was  not  to  Julia  at  all  that  he  made 
love. 

Ill 

The  amour,  if  it  may  be  described  as  such,  of  David 
Masterman  and  Kate  Forrest  took  a  course  that  was 
devoid  of  ecstasy,  whatever  other  qualities  may  have 
illuminated  their  desires.  It  was  an  affair  in  which 
the  human  intentions,  which  are  intellectual,  were  on 
both  sides  strong  enough  to  subdue  the  efforts  of  pas- 
sion, which  are  mstinctive,  to  rid  itself  of  the  custom- 
ary curbs ;  and  to  turn  the  clash  of  inhibitions  wherein 
the  man  proposes  and  the  woman  rejects  into  a  con- 
flict not  of  ideal  but  of  mere  propriety.  They  were 
like  two  negative  atoms  swinging  in  a  medium  from 
which  the  positive  flux  was  withdrawn;  for  them  the 
nebulae  did  not  "cohere  into  an  orb." 

Kate's  fine  figure  was  not  so  fine  as  Julia  Tern's; 
her  dusky  charms  were  excelled  by  those  of  lanthe; 
but  her  melancholy  immobility,  superficial  as  it  was, 


CRAVEN  ARMS  239 

had  a  suggestive  emotional  appeal  that  won  Master- 
man  away  from  her  rivals.  Those  sad  eyes  had  but 
to  rest  on  his  and  their  depths  submerged  him.  Her 
black  hair  had  no  special  luxuriance,  her  stature  no  un- 
usual grace ;  the  eyes  were  almost  blue  and  the  thin  oval 
face  had  always  the  flush  of  fine  weather  in  it;  but 
her  strong  hands,  though  not  as  white  as  snow,  were 
paler  than  milk,  their  pallor  was  unnatural.  Almost 
without  an  eflPort  she  drew  him  away  from  the  en- 
tangling lanthe,  and  even  the  image  of  Julia  became 
but  a  fair  cloud  seen  in  moonlight,  delicate  and  desir- 
able but  very  far  away ;  it  would  never  return.  Julia 
had  observed  the  relations  between  them — no  discern- 
ing eye  could  misread  Kate's  passion — and  she  gave  up 
his  class,  a  secession  that  had  a  deep  significance  for 
him.  and  a  grief  that  he  could  not  conceal  from  Kate 
though  she  was  too  wise  to  speak  of  it. 

But  in  spite  of  her  poignant  aspect — for  it  was  in 
that  appearance  she  made  such  a  powerful  appeal  to 
Masterman  ;  the  way  she  would  wait  silently  for  him  on 
the  outside  of  a  crowd  of  the  laughing  chattering  stu- 
dents was  touching — she  was  an  egotist  of  extraordi- 
nary type.  She  believed  in  herself  and  in  her  virtue 
more  strongly  than  she  believed  in  him  or  their  mutual 
love.  By  midsummer,  after  months  of  wooing,  she 
knew  that  the  man  who  so  passionately  moved  her  and 
whose  own  love  she  no  less  powerfully  engaged  was  a 
man  who  would  never  marry,  who  had  a  morbid  pre- 
posterous horror  of  the  domesticity  and  devotion  that 
was  her  conception  of  living  bliss.  "The  hand  that 
rocks  the  cradle  rocks  the  world,"  he  said.     He,  too, 


240  CRAVEN  ARMS 

knew  that  the  adored  woman,  for  her  part,  could  not 
dream  of  a  concession  beyond  the  limits  her  virginal 
modesty  prescribed.  He  had  argued  and  stormed  and 
swore  that  baffled  love  turns  irrevocably  to  hatred. 
She  did  not  believe  him,  she  even  smiled.  But  he  had 
behaved  grossly  towards  her,  terrified  her,  and  they 
had  parted  in  anger. 

He  did  not  see  her  for  many  weeks.  He  was  sur- 
prised and  dismayed  that  his  misery  was  so  profound. 
He  knew  he  had  loved  her,  he  had  not  doubted  its 
sincerity  but  he  had  doubted  its  depth.  Then  one  Sep- 
tember evening  she  had  come  back  to  the  class  and 
afterwards  she  had  walked  along  the  road  with  him 
towards  his  home. 

"Come  to  my  house,"  he  said,  "you  have  never  been 
to  see  it." 

She  shook  her  head,  it  was  getting  dark,  and  they 
walked  on  past  his  home  further  into  the  country. 
The  eve  was  late  but  it  had  come  suddenly  without  the 
deliberation  of  sunset  or  the  tenuity  of  dusk.  Each 
tree  was  a  hatful  of  the  arriving  blackness.  They 
stood  by  a  white  gate  under  an  elm,  but  they  had  little 
to  say  to  each  other. 

"Come  to  my  house,"  he  urged  again  and  again ;  she 
shook  her  head.  He  was  indignant  at  her  distrust  of 
him.  Perhaps  she  was  right  but  he  would  never  for- 
give her.  The  sky  was  now  darker  than  the  road; 
the  sighing  air  was  warm,  with  drifting  spots  of 
rain. 

"Tell  me,"  she  suddenly  said  taking  his  arm,  "has 
anybody  else  ever  loved  you  like  that." 


CRAVEN  ARMS  24I 

He  prevaricated:  "Like  what?"  He  waited  a  long 
time  for  her  answer.     She  gave  it  steadily. 

"Like  you  want  me  to  love  you." 

He,  too,  hesitated.  He  kissed  her.  He  wanted  to 
tell  her  that  it  was  not  wise  to  pry. 

"Tell  me,"  she  urged,  "tell  me." 

"Yes,"  he  replied.  He  could  not  see  her  plainly  in 
the  darkness,  but  he  knew  of  the  tears  that  fell  from 
her  eyes. 

"How  unreasonable,"  he  thought,  "how  stupid !" 
He  tried  to  tell  the  truth  to  her — the  truth  as  he  con- 
ceived it — about  his  feelings  towards  her,  and  towards 
those  others,  and  about  themselves  as  he  perceived  it. 

She  was  almost  alarmed,  certainly  shocked. 

"But  you  don't  believe  such  things,"  she  almost 
shivered,  "I'm  sure  you  don't,  it  isn't  right,  it  is  not 
true." 

"It  may  not  be  true."  he  declared  implacably,  "but 
I  believe  it.  The  real  warrant  for  holding  a  belief 
is  not  that  it  is  true  but  that  it  satisfies  you."  She 
did  not  seem  to  understand  that;  she  only  answered 
irrelevantly.  "I'll  make  it  all  up  to  you  some  day. 
I  shall  not  change,  David,  toward  you.  We  have  got 
all  our  lives  before  us.     I  shan't  alter — will  you?" 

"Not  alter !"  he  began  angrily  but  then  subduedly 
added  with  a  grim  irony  that  she  did  not  gather  in: 
"No.  I  shall  not  alter." 

She  flung  herself  upon  his  breast  murmuring: 
"I'll  make  it  all  up  to  you,  some  day." 

He  felt  like  a  sick-minded  man  and  was  glad  when 
they  parted.     He  went  back  to  his  cottage  grumbling 


242  CRAVEN  ARMS 

audibly  to  himself.  Why  could  he  not  take  this  woman 
with  the  loving  and  constant  heart  and  wed  her?  He 
did  not  know  why,  but  he  knew  he  never  would  do 
that.  She  was  fine  to  look  upon  but  she  had  ideas 
(if  you  could  call  them  ideas)  which  he  disliked. 
Her  instincts  and  propensities  were  all  wrong,  they 
were  antagonistic  to  him,  just,  as  he  felt,  his 
were  antagonistic  to  her.  What  was  true,  though, 
was  her  sorrow  at  what  she  called  their  mis- 
understandings and  what  was  profound,  what  was 
almost  convincing,  was  her  assumption  (which  but 
measured  her  own  love  for  him)  that  he  could  not 
cease  to  love  her.  How  vain  that  was.  He  had  not 
loved  any  woman  in  the  form  she  thought  all  love  must 
take.  These  were  not  misunderstandings,  they  were 
just  simply  at  opposite  ends  of  a  tilted  beam;  he  the 
sophisticated,  and  she  the  innocent  beyond  the  reach 
of  his  sophistries.  But  Good  Lord,  what  did  it  all 
matter?  what  did  anything  matter?  He  would  not 
see  her  again.  He  undressed,  got  into  bed.  He 
thought  of  Julia,  of  lanthe,  of  Kate.  He  had  a  dream 
in  which  he  lay  in  a  shroud  upon  a  white  board  and 
was  interrogated  by  a  saint  who  carried  a  reporter's 
notebook  and  a  fountain  pen. 

"What  is  your  desire,  sick-minded  man?"  the  saint 
interrogated  him,  "what  consummation  would  exalt 
your  languid  eyes?" 

"I  want  the  present  not  to  be.  It  is  neither  grave 
nor  noble." 

"Then  that  is  your  sickness.  That  mere  negation  is 
at  once  your  hope  and  end." 


CRAVEN  ARMS  243 

"I  do  not  know." 

"If  the  present  so  derides  the  dignified  past  surely 
your  desire  lies  in  a  future  incarnating  beautiful  old 
historic  dreams?" 

"I  do  not  know." 

"Ideals  are  not  in  the  past.  They  do  not  exist  in 
any  future.  They  rush  on,  and  away,  beyond  your 
immediate  activities,  beyond  the  horizons  that  are  for 
ever  fixed,  for  ever  charging  down  upon  us," 

"I  do  not  know." 

"What  is  it  you  do  know?"  asked  the  exasperated 
saint,  jerking  his  fountain  pen  to  loosen  its  flow,  and 
Masterman  replied  like  a  lunatic : 

"I  know  that  sealing  wax  is  a  pure  and  beautiful 
material  and  you  get  such  a  lot  of  it  for  a  penny." 

He  woke  and  slept  no  more.  He  cursed  Kate,  he 
sneered  at  Julia,  he  anathematized  lanthe,  until  the 
bright  eye  of  morning  began  to  gild  once  more  their 
broken  images. 

IV 

Between  the  sisters  there  grew  a  feud ;  lanthe  be- 
haved evilly  when  she  discovered  their  mutual  infatu- 
ation for  their  one  lover.  The  echoes  of  that  feud,  at 
first  dim,  but  soon  crashingly  clear,  reached  him. 
touched  him  and  moved  him  on  Kate's  behalf:  all  his 
loyalty  belonged  to  her.  What  did  it  matter  if  he 
could  not  fathom  his  own  desire,  that  lanthe  was  still 
his  for  a  word,  that  Kate's  implacable  virtue  still  offered 
its  deprecatory  hand,  when  Kate  herself  came  back  to 
him? 


244  CRAVEN  ARMS 

They  were  to  spend  a  picnic  day  together  and  she 
went  to  him  for  breakfast.  Her  tremors  of  propriety 
were  fully  exercised  as  she  cycled  along  to  his  home; 
she  was  too  fond  of  him  and  he  was  more  than  fond 
of  her;  but  all  her  qualms  were  lulled.  He  did  not 
appear  in  any  of  the  half-expected  negligee,  he  was 
beautifully  and  amusingly  at  home. 

"My  dear!"  he  exclaimed  in  the  enjoyment  of  her 
presence ;  she  stood  staring  at  him  as  she  removed  her 
wrap,  the  morn  though  bright  being  fresh  and  cool: 
"Why  do  I  never  do  you  justice !  Why  do  I  half  for- 
get! You  are  marvellously,  irresistibly  lovely.  How 
do  you  do  it — or  how  do  I  fail  so?" 

She  could  only  answer  him  with  blushes.  His 
bungalow  had  but  two  rooms,  both  on  the  ground 
floor,  one  a  studio  and  the  other  his  living  and  sleeping 
room.  It  was  new,  built  of  bricks  and  unpainted 
boards.  The  interior  walls  were  unplastered  and  un- 
decorated  except  for  three  small  saucepans  hung  on 
hooks,  a  shelf  of  dusty  volumes,  and  nails,  large  rusty 
nails,  projecting  everywhere,  one  holding  a  discarded 
collar  and  a  clothes  brush.  A  tall  flat  cupboard  con- 
tained a  narrow  bed  to  be  lowered  for  sleeping,  huge 
portmanteaus  and  holdalls  reposed  in  a  corner  beside 
a  bureau,  there  was  a  big  brass  candle-pan  on  a  chair 
beside  the  round  stove.  While  he  prepared  break- 
fast the  girl  walked  about  the  room,  making  shy  replies 
to  his  hilarious  questions.  It  was  warm  in  there  but 
to  her  tidy  comfort-loving  heart  the  room  was  dis- 
ordered and    bare.     She  stood  looking  out  of  the  win- 


CRAVEN  ARMS  245 

dow :  the  April  air  was  bright  but  chilly,  the  grass  in 
thill  tufts  fluttered  and  shivered. 

"It  is  very  nice,"  she  said  to  him  once,  "but  it's 
strange  and  I  feel  that  I  ought  not  to  be  here." 

"O,  never  mind  where  you  ought  to  be,"  he  cried, 
pouring  out  her  coffee,  "that's  where  you  are,  you 
suit  the  place,  you  brighten  and  adorn  it,  it's  your  native 
setting,  Kate.  No — I  know  exactly  what  is  running 
in  your  mind,  you  are  going  to  ask  if  I  suffer  loneli- 
ness here.  Well,  I  don't.  A  great  art  in  life  is  the 
capacity  to  extract  a  flavour  from  something  not  ob- 
viously flavoured,  but  here  it  is  all  flavour.  Come 
and  look  at  things." 

He  rose  and  led  her  from  egg  and  toast  to  the  world 
outside.  Long  fields  of  pasture  and  thicket  followed 
a  stream  that  followed  other  meadows,  soon  hidden 
by  the  ambulating  many  folding  valleys,  and  so  on  to 
the  sea,  a  hundred  miles  away.  Into  his  open  door 
were  blown,  in  their  season,  balls  of  thistledown, 
crisp  leaves,  twigs  and  dried  grass,  the  reminder,  the 
faint  brush,  of  decay.  The  airs  of  wandering  winds 
came  in.  odours  of  herb,  the  fragrance  of  viewless 
flowers.  The  land  in  some  directions  was  now  being 
furrowed  where  corn  was  greenly  to  thrive,  to  wave 
in  glimmering  gold,  to  lie  in  the  stook,  to  pile  on  giant 
stack.  Horses  were  trailing  a  harrow  across  an  upland 
below  the  park,  the  wind  was  flapping  the  coats  of  the 
drivers,  the  tails  and  manes  of  the  horses,  and  heav- 
ing gladly  in  trees.  A  boy  fired  the  heaps  of  squitch 
whose  smoke  wore  across  the  land  in  dense  deliberate 


246  CRAVEN  ARMS 

wieaths.     Sportsmen's  guns  were  sounding  from  the 
hollow  park. 

Kate  followed  Masterman  around  his  cottage;  he 
seemed  to  be  fascinated  by  the  smoke,  the  wind,  the 
horses  and  men. 

"Breakfast  will  be  cold." 

How  queerly  he  looked  at  her  before  he  said :  "Yes, 
of  course,  breakfast  will  be  getting  cold,"  and  then 
added,  inconsequently :  "Flowers  are  like  men  and 
women,  they  either  stare  brazenly  at  the  sun  or  they 
bend  humbly  before  it,  but  even  the  most  modest  de- 
sire the  sun." 

When  he  spoke  like  that  she  always  felt  that  the 
words  held  a  half -hidden,  perhaps  libidinous,  meaning, 
which  she  could  not  understand  but  only  guess  at; 
and  she  was  afraid  of  her  guesses.  Full  of  curious, 
not  to  say  absurd  superstitions  about  herself  and  about 
him,  his  strange  oblique  emotions  startled  her  virginal 
understanding;  her  desire  was  to  be  good,  very  very 
good,  but  to  be  that  she  could  not  but  suspect  the  im- 
pulses of  most  other  people,  especially  the  impulses  of 
men.  Well,  perhaps  she  was  right:  the  woman  who 
hasn't  any  doubts  must  have  many  illusions. 

He  carried  a  bag  of  lunch  and  they  walked  out  into 
the  day.  Soon  the  wind  ceased,  the  brightness  grew 
warm,  the  warmth  was  coloured;  clouds  lolled  in  the 
air  like  tufts  of  lilac.  At  the  edge  of  a  spinney  they 
sat  down  under  a  tree.  Boughs  of  wood  blown  down 
by  the  winter  gales  were  now  being  hidden  by  the 
spring  grass.  A  rabbit,  twenty  yards  away,  sat  up  and 
watched  the  couple,  a  fat  grey  creature.     "Hoi,"  cried 


CRAVEN  ARMS  247 

Kate,  and  the  rabbit  hopped  away.  It  could  not  run 
very  fast,  it  did  not  seem  much  afraid. 

"Is  it  wounded?"  she  asked. 

"No,  I  think  it  is  a  tame  one,  escaped  from  a  farm  or 
a  cottage  near  us,  I  expect." 

Kate  crept  after  it  on  hands  and  knees  and  it  let 
her  approach.  She  offered  it  the  core  of  an  apple  she 
had  just  eaten.  The  rabbit  took  it  and  bit  her  finger. 
Then  Kate  caught  it  by  the  ears.  It  squealed  but  Kate 
held  it  to  her  bosom  with  delight,  and  the  rabbit  soon 
rested  there  if  not  with  delight  at  least  with  ease.  It 
was  warm  against  her  breast,  it  was  delicious  to  feel 
it  there,  to  pull  its  ears  and  caress  its  fat  flanks,  but  as 
she  was  doing  tliis  she  suddenly  saw  that  its  coat  was 
infested  with  fleas.  She  dropped  the  rabbit  wMth  a 
scream  of  disgust  and  it  rushed  into  the  thicket. 

"Come  here,"  said  Masterman  to  her,  "let  me  search 
you,  this   is   distressing." 

She  knelt  down  before  him  and  in  spite  of  her  wrig- 
gling he  reassured  her. 

"It's  rather  a  nice  blouse,"  he  said. 

"I  don't  care  for  it.  I  shall  not  wear  it  again.  I 
shall  sell  it  to  someone  or  give  it  to  them." 

"I  would  love  to  take  it  from  you  stitch  by  stitch." 

With  an  awkward  movement  of  her  arm  she  thrust 
at  his  face,  crying  loudly,  "No,  how  dare  you  speak  to 
me  like  that !" 

"Is  it  very  daring?"  For  a  moment  he  saw  her 
clenched  hands,  detestably  bloodless,  a  symbol  of 
roused  virtue :  but  at  once  her  anger  was  gone.  Kate 
was  contrite  and  tender.     She  touched  his  face  with 


248  CRAVEN  ARMS 

her  white  fingers  softly  as  the  settling  of  a  moth.  "O, 
why  did  we  come  here?" 

He  did  not  respond  to  her  caresses,  he  was  sullen, 
they  left  the  spinney ;  but  as  they  walked  she  took  his 
arm  murmuring:  "Forgive  me,  I'll  make  it  all  up  to 
you  some  day." 

Coyness  and  cunning,  passion  and  pride,  were  so 
much  at  odds  that  later  on  they  quarrelled  again.  Kate 
knew  that  he  would  neither  marry  her  nor  let  her  go ; 
she  could  neither  let  him  go  nor  keep  him.  This 
figure  of  her  distress  amused  him,  he  was  callously 
provoking,  and  her  resentment  flowed  out  at  the  touch 
of  his  scorn.  With  Kate  there  seemed  to  be  no  in- 
termediate stages  between  docility  and  fury,  or  even 
between  love  and  hatred. 

"Why  are  you  like  this  ?"  she  cried,  beating  her  pallid 
hands  together,  "I  have  known  you  for  so  long." 

"Ah,  we  have  known  each  other  for  so  long,  but  as 
for  really  knowing  you — no !  I'm  not  a  tame  rabbit 
to  be  fondled  any  more." 

She  stared  for  a  moment,  as  if  in  recollection;  then 
burst  into  ironical  laughter.  He  caught  her  roughly 
in  his  arms  but  she  beat  him  away. 

"O,  go  to  ...  go  to  .  .  ." 

"Hell?"  he  suggested. 

"Yes,"  she  burst  out  tempestuously,  "and  stop  there." 

He  was  stunned  by  her  unexpected  violence.  She 
was  coarse  like  lanthe  after  all.     But  he  said  steadily : 

"I'm  willing  to  go  there  if  you  will  only  keep  out  of 
my  way  when  I  arrive." 

Then  he  left  her  standing  in  a  lane,  he  hurried  and 


CRAVEN  ARMS  249 

ran,  clambering  over  stiles  and  brushing  through 
hedges,  anything  to  get  away  from  the  detestable 
creature.  She  did  not  follow  him  and  they  were  soon 
out  of  sight  of  each  other.  Anger  and  commination 
swarmed  to  his  lips,  he  branded  her  with  frenzied 
opprobrium  and  all  the  beastliness  that  was  in  him. 
Nothing  under  heaven  should  ever  persuade  him  to 
approach  the  filthy  beast  again,  the  damned  intolerable 
pimp,  never,  never  again,  never. 

But  he  came  to  a  bridge.  On  it  he  rested.  And  in 
that  bright  air,  that  sylvan  peace,  his  rancour  fell  away 
from  him,  like  sand  from  a  glass,  leaving  him  dumb 
and  blank  at  the  meanness  of  his  deed.  He  went  back 
to  the  lane  as  fast  as  he  could  go.  She  was  not  there. 
Kate,  Kate,  my  dove !     But  he  could  not  find  her. 

He  was  lost  in  the  fields  until  he  came  at  last  upon  a 
road  and  a  lonely  tavern  thereby.  It  had  a  painted  sign ; 
a  very  smudgy  fox,  in  an  inexplicable  attitude,  destroy- 
ing a  fowd  that  looked  like  a  plum-pudding  but  was  in- 
tended to  depict  a  snipe.  At  the  stable  door  the  tiniest 
black  kitten  in  the  world  was  shaping  with  timid  belli- 
gerency at  a  young  and  fjuffy  goose  who,  ignoring  it, 
went  on  sipping  ecstatically  from  a  pan  of  water.  On 
the  door  were  nailed,  in  two  semicircles  of  decoration, 
sixteen  fox  pads  in  various  stages  of  decay,  an  entire 
spiral  shaving  from  the  hoof  of  a  horse,  and  some 
chalk  jottings: 

2  pads 

3  cruppers 

1  Bellyband 

2  Set  britchin 


250  CRAVEN  ARMS 

The  tavern  was  long  and  low  and  clean,  its  garden  was 
bare  but  trim.  There  was  comfort,  he  rested,  had  tea, 
and  then  in  the  bar  his  painful  musings  were  broken 
by  a  ragged  unfortunate  old  pedlar  from  Huddersfield, 

"Born  and  bred  in  Slatterwick,  it's  no  lie  ah'm  speak- 
ing, ah  were  born  and  bred  Slatterwick,  close  to  Arthur 
Brinkley's  farm,  his  sister's  in  Canady,  John  Orkroyd 
took  farm,  Arthur's  dead." 

"Humph !" 

"And  buried.  That  iron  bridge  at  Jackamon's  be- 
long to  Daniel  Cranmer.     He's  dead." 

"Humph !" 

"And  buried.  From  th'  iron  bridge  it's  two  miles 
and  a  quarter  to  Herbert  Oddy's,  that's  the  'Bay 
Horse,*  am  ah  right,  at  Shelmersdyke.  Three  miles 
and  three-quarters  from  dyke  to  the  'Cock  and  Goat' 
at  Shapley  Fell,  am  ah  right?" 

Masterman,  never  having  been  within  a  hundred 
miles  of  Yorkshire,  puffed  at  his  cigarette  and  nodded 
moodily,  "I  suppose  so"  or  "Yes,  yes." 

"From  Arthur  Brinkley's  to  th'  iron  bridge  is  one 
mile  and  a  half  and  a  bit,  and  from  Arthur  Brinkley's 
to  Jury  Cartright's  is  just  four  mile.     He's  dead,  sir." 

"Yes." 

"And  buried.  Is  that  wrong?  Am  ah  speaking 
wrong?  No.  It's  long  step  from  yon,  rough  tramp 
for  an  old  man." 

Masterman — after  giving  sixpence  to  the  pedlar  who, 
uttering  a  benediction,  pressed  upon  him  a  card  of 
shirt  buttons — said  "Good  evening"  and   walked  out 


CRAVEN  ARMS  25  I 

to  be  alone  upon  the  road  with  his  once  angry  but  now 
penitent  mind.     Kate,  poor  dear  Kate ! 

The  sun  was  low  down  lolling  near  the  horizon  but 
there  was  an  astonishing  light  upon  the  land.  Cottage 
windows  were  blocks  of  solid  gold  in  this  lateral 
brilliance,  shafts  of  shapely  shade  lay  across  leagues 
of  field,  he  could  have  counted  every  leaf  among  the 
rumpled  boskage  of  the  sycamores.  A  vast  fan  of 
indurated  cloud,  shell-like  and  pearly,  was  wavering  over 
the  western  sky  but  in  the  east  were  snowy  rounded 
masses  like  fabulous  balloons.  At  a  cross  road  he  stood 
by  an  old  sign  post,  its  pillar  plastered  with  the  faded 
bill  of  a  long-ago  circus.  He  could  read  every  word  of 
it  but  when  he  turned  away  he  found  everything  had 
grown  dimmer.  The  wind  arose,  the  forest  began  to 
roar  like  a  heaving  beast.  All  verdurous  things  leaned 
one  way.  A  flock  of  starlings  flew  over  him  with  one 
movement  and  settled  in  a  rolling  elm.  How  lonely 
it  was.  He  took  oflf  his  hat.  His  skull  was  fearfully 
tender — he  had  dabbed  it  too  hard  with  his  hair  brush 
that  morning.  His  hair  was  growing  thin,  like  his 
youth  and  his  desires. 

What  had  become  of  Kate,  where  had  she  hidden? 
What  zvoidd  become  of  her?  He  would  never  see  her 
again.  He  disliked  everything  about  her.  except  her 
self.  Her  clothes,  her  speech,  her  walk,  the  way  she 
carried  her  umbrella,  her  reticence  that  was  nothing 
if  not  conspicuous,  her  melancholy,  her  angular  con- 
crete piety,  her  hands — in  particular  he  disliked  her 
pale  hands.    She  had  a  mind  that  was  cultivated  as  per- 


252  CRAVEN   ARMS 

functorily  as  a  kitchen  garden,  with  ideas  Hke  roots  or 
beans,  hostilities  hke  briars,  and  a  fence  of  prudery  that 
was  as  tough  as  hoops  of  galvanized  iron.  And  yet  he 
loved  her — or  almost.  He  was  ready  to  love  her,  he 
wanted  to,  he  wanted  her;  her  deep  but  guarded  de- 
votion— it  was  limited  but  it  was  devotion — compelled 
this  return  from  him.  It  was  a  passionate  return. 
He  had  tried  to  mould  that  devotion  into  a  form  that 
could  delight  him — he  had  failed.  He  knew  her  now, 
he  could  peer  into  her  craven  soul  as  one  peers  into 
an  empty  bottle,  with  one  eye.  For  her  the  opportuni- 
ties afforded  by  freedom  were  but  the  preludes  to  mis- 
adventure.    What  a  fool  she  was ! 

When  he  reached  home  Kate  stood  in  darkness  at 
the  doorway  of  his  house.  He  exclaimed  with  delight, 
her  surprising  presence  was  the  very  centre  of  his  de- 
sire, he  wanted  to  embrace  her,  loving  her  deeply,  in- 
explicably again;  just  in  a  moment. 

"I  want  my  bike,"  the  girl  said  sullenly,  "I  left 
it  inside  this  morning. 

"Ah,  your  bicycle!  Yes,  you  did."  He  unlocked 
the  door.  "Wait,  there  should  be  a  candle,  there  should 
be." 

She  stood  in  the  doorway  until  he  had  lit  it. 

"Come  in,  Kate,"  he  said,  "let  me  give  you  some- 
thing. I  think  there  is  some  milk,  certainly  I  have 
some  cake,  come  in,  Kate,  or  do  you  drink  beer,  I  have 
beer,  come  in,  I'll  make  you  something  hot," 

But  Kate  only  took  her  bicycle.  "I  ought  to  have 
been  home  hours  ago,"  she  said  darkly,  wheeling  it 
outside   and   lighting   the  lantern.     He   watched   her 


CRAVEN  ARMS  253 

silently  as  she  dabbed  the  wick,  the  pallor  of  her  hands 
had  never  appeared  so  marked. 

"Let's  be  kind  to  each  other,"  he  said,  detaining  her, 
"don't  go,  dear  Kate." 

She  i)ushed  the  bicycle  out  into  the  road. 

"Won't  you  see  me  again?"  he  asked  as  she  mounted 
it. 

"I  am  always  seeing  you,"  she  called  back,  but  her 
meaning  was  dark  to  him. 

"Faugh !  The  devil !  The  fool !"  He  gurgled 
anathemas  as  he  returned  to  his  cottage.  "And  me  too ! 
What  am  I  ?" 

But  no  mortal  man  could  ever  love  a  woman  of  that 
kind.  She  did  not  love  him  at  all,  had  never  loved 
him.  Then  what  was  it  she  did  love?  Not  her  virtue 
— you  might  as  well  be  proud  of  the  sole  of  your  foot ; 
it  was  some  sort  of  pride,  perhaps  the  test  of  her  virtue 
that  the  conflict  between  them  provoked,  the  contest 
itself  alone  alluring  her,  not  its  aim  and  end.  She  was 
never  happier  than  when  having  led  him  on  she 
thwarted  him.  But  she  would  find  that  his  metal  was 
as  tough  as  her  own. 

Before  going  to  bed  he  spent  an  hour  in  writing 
very  slowly  a  letter  to  Kate,  telling  her  that  he  felt 
they  would  not  meet  again,  that  their  notions  of  love 
were  so  unrelated,  their  standards  so  different.  "My 
morals  are  at  least  as  high  as  yours  though  likely 
enough  you  regard  me  as  a  rip.  Let  us  recognize 
then,"  he  wrote  concludingly,  "that  we  have  come  to 
the  end  of  the  tether  without  once  having  put  an  ounce 
of  strain  upon  its  delightful  but  never  tense  cord.     But 


254  CRAVEN  ARMS 

the  effort  to  keep  the  affair  down  to  the  level  at  which 
you  seem  satisfied  has  wearied  me.  The  task  of  living 
down  to  that  assured  me  that  for  you  the  effort  of 
living  up  to  mine  would  be  consuming.  I  congratu- 
late you,  my  dear,  on  coming  through  scatheless  and 
that  the  only  appropriate  condolences  are  my  own — 
for  myself." 

It  was  rather  pompous,  he  thought,  but  then  she 
wouldn't  notice  that,  let  alone  understand  it.  She 
suffered  not  so  much  from  an  impediment  of  speech — 
how  could  she  when  she  spoke  so  little? — as  from  an 
impediment  of  intellect,  which  was  worse,  much  worse, 
but  not  so  noticeable  being  so  common  a  failing.  She 
was,  when  all  was  said  and  done,  just  a  fool.  It  was  a 
pity,  for  bodily  she  must  indeed  be  a  treasure. 
What  a  pity !  But  she  had  never  had  any  love  for 
him  at  all,  only  compassion  and  pity  for  his  bad  thoughts 
about  her ;  he  had  neither  pity  for  her  nor  compunction 
--only  love.  Dear,  dear,  dear.  Blow  out  the  candle, 
lock  the  door,  Good-night! 


He  did  not  see  her  again  for  a  long  time.  He  would 
have  liked  to  have  seen  her,  yes,  just  once  more,  but  of 
course  he  was  glad,  quite  glad,  that  she  did  not  wish  to 
risk  it  and  drag  from  dim  depths  the  old  passion  to 
break  again  in  those  idiotic  bubbles  of  propriety.  She 
did  not  answer  his  letter — he  was  amused.  Then  her 
long  silence  vexed  him.  until  vexation  was  merged  in 
alarm.  She  had  gone  away  from  Tutsan — of  course — • 
gone  away  on  family  affairs — oh,  naturally  ! — she  might 


CRAVEN  ARMS  2^^ 

be  gone  for  ever.  But  a  real  grief  came  upon  him. 
He  had  long  mocked  the  girl,  not  only  the  girl  but  his 
own  vision  of  her;  now  she  was  gone  his  mind  elab- 
orated her  melancholy  immobile  figure  into  an  image  of 
beauty.  Her  absence,  her  silence,  left  him  wretched. 
He  heard  of  iier  from  lanthe  who  renewed  her  blandish- 
ments ;  he  was  not  unwilling  to  receive  them  now 
— he  hoped  their  intercourse  might  be  reported  to 
Kate. 

After  many  months  he  did  receive  a  letter  from  her. 
It  was  a  tender  letter  though  ill-expressed,  not  very 
wise  or  informative,  but  he  could  feel  that  the  old  affec- 
tion for  him  was  still  there,  and  he  wrote  her  a  long 
reply  in  which  penitence  and  passion  and  appeal  were 
mingled, 

"I  know  now,  yes,  I  see  it  all  now ;  solutions  are  so 
easy  when  the  proof  of  them  is  passed.  We  were  cold 
to  each  other,  it  was  stupid,  I  should  have  made  you  love 
me  and  it  would  have  been  well.  I  see  it  now.  How 
stupid,  how  unlucky ;  it  turned  me  to  anger  and  you  to 
sorrow.     Now  I  can  think  only  of  you." 

She  made  no  further  sign,  not  immediately,  and  he 
grew  dull  again.  His  old  disbelief  in  her  returned. 
Bah !  she  loved  him  no  more  than  a  suicide  loved  the 
pond  it  dies  in;  she  had  used  him  for  her  senseless 
egoism,  tempting  him  and  fooling  him,  wantonly,  he 
had  not  begun  it,  and  she  took  a  chaste  pride  in  saving 
herself  from  him.  What  was  it  the  old  writer  had 
said? 

"Chastity,  by  nature  the  gentlest  of  all  affections — 
give  it  but  its  head — 'tis  like  a  ramping  and  roaring 


256  CRAVEN  ARMS 

lion."  Saving  herself !  Yes,  she  would  save  herself 
for  marriage. 

He  even  began  to  contemplate  that  outcome. 

Her  delayed  letter,  when  it  came,  announced  that  she 
was  coming  home  at  once;  he  was  to  meet  her  train 
in  the  morning  after  the  morrow. 

It  was  a  dull  autumnal  morning  when  he  met  her. 
Her  appearance  was  not  less  charming  than  he  had 
imagined  it,  though  the  charm  was  almost  inarticulate 
and  there  were  one  or  two  crude  touches  that  momenta- 
rily distressed  him.  But  he  met  with  a  flush  of  emotion 
all  her  glances  of  gaiety  and  love  that  were  somehow, 
vaguely,  different — perhaps  there  was  a  shade  less  re- 
serve. They  went  to  lunch  in  the  city  and  at  the  end 
of  the  meal  he  asked  her : 

"Well,  why  have  you  come  back  again  ?" 

She  looked  at  him  intently :  "Guess !" 

"I — well,  no — perhaps — tell  me,  Kate,  yourself." 

"You  are  different  now,  you  look  different,  David." 

"Am  I  changed?     Better  or  worse?" 

She  did  not  reply  and  he  continued: 

"You  too,  are  changed.  I  can't  tell  how  it  is,  or 
where,  but  you  are." 

"O,  I  am  changed,  much  changed,"  murmured  Kate. 

"Have  you  been  well?" 

"Yes." 

"And  happy?" 

"Yes." 

"Then  how  unwise  of  you  to  come  back." 

"I  have  come  back,"  said  Kate,  "to  be  happier.  But 
somehow  you  are  different." 


CRAVEN  ARMS  257 

"You  are  different,  too.  Shall  we  ever  be  happy 
again  ?" 

"Why — why  not!"  said  Kate. 

"Come  on !"  he  cried  hilariously,  "let  us  make  a  day 
of  it,  come  along!" 

Out  in  the  streets  they  wandered  until  rain  began 
to  fall. 

"Come  in  here  for  a  while."  They  were  passing  a 
roomy  dull  building,  the  museum,  and  they  went  in  to- 
gether. It  was  a  vast  hollow-sounding  flagstone  place 
that  had  a  central  brightness  fading  into  dim  recesses 
and  galleries  of  gloom.  They  examined  a  monster 
skeleton  of  something  like  an  elephant,  three  stuffed 
apes,  and  a  picture  of  the  dodo.  Kate  stood  before 
them  without  interest  or  amusement,  she  just  contem- 
plated them.  What  did  she  want  with  an  elephant,  an 
ape,  or  a  dodo?  The  glass  exhibit  cases  were  leaned 
upon  by  them,  the  pieces  of  coal  neatly  arranged  and 
labelled  were  stared  at  besides  the  pieces  of  granite 
or  coloured  rock  with  long  names  ending  in  orite 
doriie  and  soritc  and  so  on  to  the  precious  gems  includ- 
ing an  imitation,  as  big  as  a  bun,  of  a  noted  diamond. 
They  leaned  over  them,  repeating  the  names  on  the 
labels  with  the  quintessence  of  vacuity.  They  hated 
it.  There  were  beetles  and  worms  of  horror,  butter- 
flies of  beauty,  and  birds  that  had  been  stuffed  so  long 
that  they  seemed  to  be  intoxicated ;  their  beaks  fitted 
them  as  loosely  as  a  drunkard's  hat,  their  glassy  eyes 
were  pathetically  vague.  After  ascending  a  flight  of 
stone  steps  David  and  Kate  stooped  for  a  long  time  over 
a  case  of  sea-anemones  that  had  been  reproduced  in 


258  CRAVEN  ARMS 

gelatine  by  a  German  with  a  fancy  for  such  things. 
From  the  railed  balcony  they  could  peer  down  into 
the  well  of  the  fusty-smelling  museum.  No  one  else 
was  visiting  it,  they  were  alone  with  all  things  dead, 
things  that  had  died  millions  of  years  ago  and  were  yet 
simulating  life.  A  footfall  sounded  so  harsh  in  the 
corridors,  boomed  with  such  clangour,  that  they  took 
slow  diffident  steps,  almost  tiptoeing,  while  Kate 
scarcely  spoke  at  all  and  he  conversed  in  murmurs. 
Whenever  he  coughed  the  whole  place  seemed  to 
shudder.  In  the  recess,  hidden  from  prying  eyes, 
David  clasped  her  willing  body  in  his  arms.  For  once 
she  was  unshrinking  and  returned  his  fervour.  The 
vastness,  the  emptiness,  the  deadness,  worked  upon 
their  feelings  with  intense  magic. 

"Love  me,  David,"  she  murmured,  and  when  they 
moved  away  from  the  gelatinous  sea-urchins  she  kept 
both  her  arms  clasped  around  him  as  they  walked  the 
length  of  the  empty  corridors.  He  could  not  under- 
.stand  her,  he  could  not  perceive  her  intimations,  their 
meaning  was  dark  to  him.  She  was  so  altered,  this 
was  another  Kate. 

"I  have  come  home  to  make  it  all  up  to  you,"  she 
repeated,  and  he  scarcely  dared  to  understand  her. 

They  approached  a  lecture-room;  the  door  was 
open,  the  room  was  empty,  they  went  in  and  stood  near 
the  platform.  The  place  was  arranged  like  a  tiny 
theatre,  tiers  of  desks  rising  in  half-circles  on  three 
sides  high  up  towards  the  ceiling.  A  small  platform 
with  a  lecturer's  desk  confronted  the  rising  tiers;  on 
the  wall  behind  it  a  large  white  sheet ;  a  magic  lantern 


CRAVEN   ARMS  259 

on  a  pedestal  was  near  and  a  blackboard  on  an  easel. 
A  pencil  of  white  chalk  lay  broken  on  the  floor.  Be- 
hind the  easel  was  a  piano,  a  new  piano  with  a  duster 
on  its  lid.  The  room  smelled  of  spilled  acids.  The 
lovers'  steps  upon  the  wooden  floor  echoed  louder  than 
ever  after  their  peregrinations  upon  the  flagstones; 
they  were  timid  of  the  sound  and  stood  still,  close 
together,  silent.  He  touched  her  bosom  and  pressed 
her  to  his  heart,  but  all  her  surrender  seemed  strange 
and  nerveless.  She  was  almost  violently  different; 
he  had  liked  her  old  rejections,  they  were  fiery  and 
passionate.  He  scarce  knew  wdiat  to  do,  he  understood 
her  less  than  ever  now.  Dressed  as  she  was  in  thick 
winter  clothes  it  was  like  embracing  a  tree,  it  tired 
him.  She  lay  in  his  arms  waiting,  waiting,  until  he 
felt  almost  stifled.  Something  like  the  smell  of  the 
acids  came  from  her  fur  necklet.  He  was  glad  when 
she  stood  up,  but  she  was  looking  at  him  intently. 
To  cover  his  uneasiness  he  went  to  the  blackboard  and 
picking  up  a  piece  of  the  chalk  he  wrote  the  first  incon- 
sequent words  that  came  into  his  mind.  Kate  stood 
where  he  had  left  her,  staring  at  the  board  as  he  traced 
the  words  upon  it : 

IVc  arc  but  Uttlc  children  weak 

Laughing  softly  she  strolled  towards  him. 

"What  do  you  write  that  for?     I  know  what  it  is." 

"What  it  is!     Well,  what  is  it?" 

She  took  the  chalk  from  his  fingers. 

"It's  a  hymn,"  she  went  on,  "it  goes  .  .  ." 


26o  CRAVEN  ARMS 

"A  hymn!"  he  cried,  "I  did  not  know  that." 
Underneath  the  one  he  had  written  she  was  now  writ- 
ing another  Hne  on  the  board. 

Nor  horn  to  any  high  estate. 

"Of  course,"  he  whispered,  "I  remember  it  now. 
I  sang  it  as  a  child — at  school — go  on,  go  on." 

But  she  had  thereupon  suddenly  turned  away,  silent, 
dropping  her  hands  to  her  side.  One  of  her  old  black 
moods  had  seized  her.  He  let  her  go  and  picking  up 
another  fragment  of  chalk  completed  the  verse. 

What  can  zoe  do  for  Jcsiis  sake 
Who  is  so  high  and  good  and  great? 

She  turned  when  he  had  finished  and  without  a  word 
walked  loudly  to  the  piano,  fetched  the  duster  and 
rubbed  out  the  words  they  had  written  on  the  black- 
board.    She  was  glaring  angrily  at  him. 

"How  absurd  you  are," — he  was  annoyed — "let  us 
go  out  and  get  some  tea."  He  wandered  oflf  to  the 
door,  but  she  did  not  follow.  He  stood  just  outside 
gazing  vacantly  at  a  stuffed  jay  that  had  an  indigo  eye. 
He  looked  into  the  room  again.  She  was  there  still, 
just  as  he  had  left  her;  her  head  bent,  her  hands  hang- 
ing clasped  before  her,  the  dimness  covering  and  caress- 
ing her — a  figure  full  of  sad  thoughts.  He  ran  to  her 
and  crushed  her  in  his  arms  again. 

"Kate,  my  lovely." 

She  was  saying  brokenly:  "You  know  what  I  said. 


CRAVEN  ARMS  261 

I've  come  to  make  it  all  up  to  you.     I  promised,  didn't 
I?" 

Something  shuddered  in  his  very  soul — too  late,  too 
late,  this  was  no  love  for  him.  The  magic  lantern 
looked  a  stupid  childish  toy,  the  smell  of  the  acid  was 
repulsive.  Of  all  they  had  written  upon  the  black- 
board one  word  dimly  remained :  Jcsu. 

She  stirred  in  his  arms.     "You  are  changed,  David." 
"Changed,  yes,  everything  is  changed." 
"This  is  just  like  a  theatre,  like  a  play,  as  if  we  were 
acting." 

"Yes,  as  if  we  were  acting.  But  we  are  not  acting. 
Let  us  go  up  and  sit  in  the  gallery." 

They  ascended  the  steps  to  the  top  ring  of  desks  and 
looked  down  to  the  tiny  platform  and  the  white  cur- 
tain.    She  sat  fondling  his  hands,  leaning  against  him. 
"Have  you  ever  acted — you  would  do  it  so  well?" 
"Why  do  you  say  that?     Am  I  at  all  histrionic?" 
"Does  that  mean  insincere?     O  no.     But  you  are 
the  person  one  expects  to  be  able  to  do  anything." 

"Nonsense!  I've  never  acted.  I  suppose  I  could. 
It  isn't  difficult,  you  haven't  to  be  clever,  only  coura- 
geous. I  should  think  it  very  easy  to  be  only  an  ordi- 
nary actor,  but  I'm  wrong,  no  doubt.  I  thought  it  was 
easy  to  write — to  write  a  play — until  I  tried.  I  once 
engaged  myself  to  write  a  little  play  for  some  students 
to  act.  I  had  never  done  such  a  thing  before  and  like 
other  idiots  I  thought  I  hadn't  ever  done  it  simply  be- 
cause I  hadn't  ever  wanted  to.  Heavens,  how  harassed 
I  was  and  how  ashamed!  I  could  not  do  it,  I  got  no 
further  than  the  author's  speech." 


262  CRAVEN  ARMS 

"Well  that  was  something.     Tell  me  it." 

"It's  nothing  to  do  with  the  play.  It's  what  the 
author  says  to  the  audience  when  the  play  is  finished." 

She  insisted  on  hearing  it  whatever  it  was.  "O  well," 
he  said  at  last,  "let's  do  that  properly,  at  least.  I'll  go 
down  there  and  deliver  it  from  the  stage.  You  must 
pretend  that  you  are  the  enthusiastic  audience.  Come 
and  sit  in  the  stalls." 

They  went  down  together. 

"Now  imagine  that  this  curtain  goes  up  and  I 
suddenly  appear." 

Kate  faintly  clapped  her  hands.  He  stood  upon  the 
platform  facing  her  and  taking  off  his  hat,  began : 

"Ladies  and  Gentlemen, 

"I  am  so  deeply  touched  by  the  warmth  of  this  re- 
ception, this  utterly  undeserved  appreciation,  that — for- 
give me — I  have  forgotten  the  speech  I  had  carefully 
prepared  in  anticipation  of  it.  Let  me  meet  my  obli- 
gation by  telling  you  a  story ;  I  think  it  is  true,  I  made 
it  up  myself.  Once  upon  a  time  there  was  a  poor  play- 
wright— something  like  me — who  wrote  a  play — some- 
thing like  this — and  at  the  end  of  the  performance  the 
audience,  a  remarkably  handsome  well-fed  intellectual 
audience — something  like  this — called  him  before  the 
curtain  and  demanded  a  speech.  He  protested  that  he 
was  unprepared  and  asked  them  to  allow  him  to  tell 
them  a  story — something  like  this.  Well,  that,  too,  was 
a  remarkably  handsome  well-fed  intellectual  audience, 
so  they  didn't  mind  and  he  began  again. — Once  upon  a 
time  a  poor  playwright — and  was  just  about  to  repeat 
the    story    I    have    already    twice    told    you    when 


CRAVEN  ARMS  263 

suddenly,  without  a  word  of  warning,  without  a  sound, 
without  a  compunction,  the  curtain  swooped  down  and 
chopped  him  clean  in  half." 

Masterman  made  an  elaborate  obeisance  and  stepped 
ofT  the  platform. 

"Is  that  all?"  asked  Kate. 

"That's  all." 

At  that  moment  a  loud  bell  clanged  throughout  the 
building  signifying  that  the  museum  was  about  to 
close. 

"Come  along !"  he  cried,  but  Kate  did  not  move,  she 
still  sat  in  the  stalls. 

"Don't  leave  me,  David,  I  want  to  hear  the  play?" 
she  said  archly. 

"There  was  no  play.  There  is  no  play.  Come,  or 
we  shall  be  locked  in  for  the  night." 

She  still  sat  on.  He  went  to  her  and  seized  her 
hands. 

"What  does  it  matter !"  she  whispered,  embracing 
him.     "I  want  to  make  it  all  up  to  you." 

He  was  astoundingly  moved.  She  was  marvellously 
changed,  li  she  hadn't  the  beauty  of  perfection  she 
had  some  of  the  perfection  of  beauty.     He  adored  her. 

"But,  no,"  he  said,  "it  won't  do,  it  really  won't. 
Come,  I  have  got  to  buy  you  something  at  once,  a 
ring  with  a  diamond  in  it,  as  big  as  a  bun,  an  engage- 
ment ring,  quickly,  or  the  shops  will  be  shut." 

He  dragged  the  stammering  bewildered  girl  away, 
down  the  stairs  and  into  the  street.  The  rain  had 
ceased,  the  sunset  sky  was  bright  and  Masterman  was 
intensely  happy. 


COTTON 


COTTON 

AT  the  place  where  the  road  from  Carnaby 
Down  ends  in  the  main  western  highway 
that  goes  towards  Bath  there  stands,  or  once 
stood,  a  strongly  built  stone  cottage  confronting,  on  the 
opposite  side  of  the  highroad,  a  large  barn  and  some 
cattle  stalls.  A  man  named  Cotton  lived  with  his  wife 
lonely  in  this  place,  their  whole  horizon  bounded  by 
the  hedges  and  fences  of  their  farm.  His  Christian 
name,  for  some  unchristian  reason,  was  Janifex,  people 
called  him  Jan,  possibly  because  it  rhymed  with  his 
v/ife's  name,  which  was  Ann.  And  Ann  was  a  robust 
managing  woman  of  five  and  thirty,  childless,  full  of 
desolating  cleanliness  and  kindly  tyrannies,  with  no  per- 
ceptions that  were  not  determined  by  her  domestic  am- 
bition, and  no  sympathies  that  could  interfere  with  her 
diurnal  energies  whatever  they  might  be.  Jan  was  a 
mild  husbandman,  prematurely  aged,  with  large  teeth 
and,  since  "forty  winters  had  besieged  his  brow."  but 
little  hair.  Sometimes  one  of  the  large  teeth  would 
droj)  out,  leaving  terrible  gaps  when  he  opened  his 
mouth  and  turning  his  patient  smile  to  a  hideous  leer. 
These  evacuations,  which  were  never  restored,  began 
with  the  death  of  Queen  Victoria;  throughout  the  reign 

267 


268  COTTON 

of  her  successor  great  events  were  punctuated  by  simi- 
lar losses  until  at  last  Jan  could  masticate,  in  his  staid 
old  manner,  only  in  one  overworked  corner  of  his 
mouth. 

He  would  rise  of  a  morning  throughout  the  moving 
year  at  five  of  the  clock;  having  eaten  his  bread  and 
drunk  a  mug  of  cocoa  he  would  don  a  long  white  jacket 
and  cross  the  road  diagonally  to  the  gate  at  the  eastern 
corner  of  the  sheds;  these  were  capped  by  the  bright 
figure  of  a  golden  cockerel,  voiceless  but  useful, 
^flaunting  always  to  meet  the  challenge  of  the  wind. 
Sometimes  in  his  deliberate  way  Jan  would  lift  his 
forlorn  eyes  in  the  direction  of  the  road  coming  from 
the  east,  but  he  never  turned  to  the  other  direction  as 
that  would  have  cost  him  a  physical  eiTort  and  bodily 
flexion  had  ceased  years  and  years  ago.  Do  roads  ever 
run  backward — leaps  not  forward  the  eye?  As  he 
imloosed  the  gate  of  the  yard  his  great  dog  would  lift 
its  chained  head  from  some  sacks  under  a  cart,  and  a 
peacock  would  stalk  from  the  belt  of  pines  that  partly 
encircled  the  buildings.  The  man  would  greet  them, 
saying  "O,  ah!"  In  the  rickyard  he  would  pause  to 
release  the  fowls  from  their  hut  and  watch  them  run  to 
the  stubbles  or  spurn  the  chaff  with  their  claws  as  they 
ranged  between  the  stacks.  If  the  day  were  windy  the 
chaff  would  fall  back  in  clouds  upon  their  bustling 
feathers,  and  that  delighted  his  simple  mind.  It  is 
difficult  to  account  for  his  joy  in  this  thing  for  though 
his  heart  was  empty  of  cruelty  it  seemed  to  be  empty 
of  everything  else.     Then  he  would  pass  into  the  stalls 


COTTON  269 

and  with  a  rattle  of  can  and  churn  the  labour  of  the 
day  was  begun. 

Thus  he  lived,  with  no  temptations,  and  few  desires 
except  perhaps  for  milk  puddings,  which  for  some 
reason  concealed  in  Ann's  thrifty  bosom  he  was  only 
occasionally  permitted  to  enjoy.  Whenever  his  wife 
thought  kindly  of  him  she  would  give  him  a  piece 
of  silver  and  he  would  traipse  a  mile  in  the  evening,  a 
mile  along  to  the  Hnnisman's  Cup,  and  take  a 
tankard  of  beer.  On  his  return  he  would  tell  Ann  of 
the  things  he  had  seen,  the  people  he  had  met,  and 
other  events  of  his  journey. 

Once,  in  the  time  of  spring,  when  buds  were  burst- 
ing along  the  hedge  coverts  and  birds  of  harmony  and 
swiftness  had  begun  to  roost  in  the  wood,  a  blue- 
chinned  Spaniard  came  to  lodge  at  the  farm  for  a 
few  weeks.  He  was  a  labourer  working  at  some  par- 
ticular contract  upon  the  estate  adjoining  the  Cottons' 
holding,  and  he  was  accommodated  with  a  bed  and  an 
abundance  of  room  in  a  clean  loft  behind  the  house. 
With  curious  shoes  upon  his  feet,  blazing  check 
trousers  fitting  tightly  upon  his  thighs,  a  wrapper  of 
pink  silk  around  his  neck,  he  was  an  astonishing  figure 
in  that  withdrawn  corner  of  the  world.  When  the  sea- 
son chilled  him  a  long  black  cloak  with  a  hood  for  his 
head  added  a  further  strangeness.  Juan  da  Costa  was 
his  name.  He  was  slightly  round-shouldered  with  an 
uncongenial  squint  in  his  eyes;  though  he  used  but 
few  words  of  English  his  ways  were  beguiling;  he 
sang  very   blithely   shrill   Spanish   songs,   and  had   a 


270  COTTON 

pleasant  courtesy  of  manner  that  presented  a  deal  of 
attraction  to  the  couple,  particularly  Ann,  whose  casual 
heart  he  reduced  in  a  few  hours  to  kindness,  and  in 
a  few  days,  inexplicably  perhaps,  to  a  still  warmer 
emotion — yes,  even  in  the  dull  blankness  of  that  mind 
some  ghostly  star  could  glimmer.  From  the  hour 
of  his  arrival  she  was  an  altered  woman  although,  with 
primitive  subtlety  the  transition  from  passivity  to 
passion  was  revealed  only  by  one  curious  sign,  and 
that  was  the  spirit  of  her  kindness  evoked  for  the 
amiable  Jan,  who  now  fared  mightily  upon  his  favour- 
ite dishes. 

Sometimes  the  Spaniard  would  follow  Jan  about  the 
farm.  "Grande !"  he  would  say,  gesturing  with  his  arm 
to  indicate  the  wide-rolling  hills. 

"O,  ah !"  Jan  would  reply,  "there's  a  heap  o'  land 
in  the  open  air." 

The  Spaniard  does  not  understand.  He  asks : 
"What?" 

"O,  ah!"  Jan  would  echo. 

But  it  was  the  cleanly  buxom  Ann  to  whom  Da  Costa 
devoted  himself.  He  brought  home  daily,  though  not 
ostensibly  to  her,  a  bunch  of  the  primroses,  a  stick 
of  snowbudded  sallow,  or  a  sprig  of  hazel  hung  with 
catkins,  soft  caressable  things.  He  would  hold  the 
hazel  up  before  Ann's  uncomprehending  gaze  and  strike 
the  lemon-coloured  powder  from  the  catkins  on  to  the 
expectant  adjacent  buds,  minute  things  with  stiff 
female  prongs,  red  like  the  eyes  of  the  white  rabbit 
which  Ann  kept  in  the  orchard  hutch. 

One  day  Juan  came  home  unexpectedly  in  mid-after- 


COTTON  271 

noon.  It  was  a  cold  dry  day  and  he  wore  his  black 
cloak  and  hood. 

"See,"  he  cried,  walking  up  to  Ann,  who  greeted 
him  with  a  smile;  he  held  out  to  her  a  posy  of  white 
violets  tied  up  with  some  blades  of  thick  grass.  She 
smelt  them  but  said  nothing.  He  pressed  the  violets 
to  his  lips  and  again  held  them  out,  this  time  to  her 
lips.  She  took  them  from  him  and  touched  them  with 
the  front  of  her  bodice  while  he  watched  her  with 
delighted  eyes. 

"You  .  .  .  give  ...  me  ...  something  .  .  .  for 
.  .  .  los  flores?" 

"Piece  a  cake!"  said  Ann,  moving  towards  the  pantry 
door. 

"Ah  ...  cake  ..  .   !" 

As  she  pulled  open  the  door,  still  keeping  a  demure 
eye  upon  him.  the  violets  fell  out  and  down  upon  the 
floor,  unseen  by  her.  He  rushed  towards  them  with 
a  cry  of  pain  and  a  torrent  of  his  strange  language; 
picking  them  up  he  followed  her  into  the  pantry,  a 
narrow  place  almost  surrounded  by  shelves  with  pots 
of  pickles  and  jam.  plates,  cups  and  jugs,  a  scrap  of 
meat  upon  a  trencher,  a  white  bowl  with  cob  nuts  and  a 
pair  of  iron  crackers. 

"See  .  .  .  lost!"  he  cried  shrilly  as  she  turned  to  him. 
She  was  about  to  take  them  again  wlien  he  stayed  her 
with  a  whimsical  gesture. 

"Me  .  .  .  me,"  he  said,  and  brushing  her  eyes  with 
their  soft  perfume  he  unfastened  the  top  button  of  her 
bodice  while  the  woman  stood  motionless;  then  the 
second  button,  then  the  third.     He  turned  the  corners 


272  COTTON 

inwards  and  tucked  the  flowers  between  her  flesh  and 
underlinen.  They  stood  eyeing  one  another,  breathing 
uneasily,  but  with  a  pretence  of  monchalance.  "Ah!" 
he  said  suddenly;  before  she  could  stop  him  he  had 
seized  a  few  nuts  from  the  white  bowl  and  holding 
open  her  bodice  where  the  flowers  rested  he  dropped 
the  nuts  into  her  warm  bosom,  "One  .  .  .  two  .  .  . 
three!" 

"Oh  .  .  .  !"  screamed  Ann  mirthfully,  shrinking 
from  their  tickling,  but  immediately  she  checked  her 
laughter — she  heard  footsteps.  Beating  down  the 
grasping  arms  of  the  Spaniard  she  darted  out  of  the 
doorway  and  shut  him  in  the  pantry,  just  in  time  to 
meet  Jan  coming  into  the  kitchen  howling  for  a  chain 
he  required. 

"What  d'ye  want?"  said  Ann. 

"That  chain  for  the  well-head,  gal,  it's  hanging  in 
the  pantry."     He  moved  to  the  door. 

"Tain't,"  said  Ann  barring  his  way.  "It's  in 
the  barn.  I  took  it  there  yesterday,  on  the  oats 
it  is,  you'll  find  it,  clear  off  with  your  dirty  boots.'* 
She  "hooshed"  him  off  much  as  she  "hooshed"  the 
hens  out  of  the  garden.  Immediately  he  was  gone 
she  pulled  open  the  pantry  door  and  was  confronted  by 
the  Spaniard  holding  a  long  clasp  knife  in  his 
raised  hand.  On  seeing  her  he  just  smiled,  threw  down 
the  knife  and  took  the  bewildered  woman  into  his  arms. 

"Wait,  wait,"  she  whispered,  and  breaking  from  him 
she  seized  a  chain  from  a  hook  and  ran  out  after  her 
husband  with  it,  holding  up  a  finger  of  warning  to  the 
Spaniard  as  she  brushed  past  him.      She  came  back 


COTTON  273 

panting,  having  made  some  sort  of  explanation  to 
Jan ;  entering  the  kitclien  quietly  she  found  the  Span- 
iard's cloak  lying  upon  the  table ;  the  door  of  the  pantry 
was  shut  and  he  had  apparently  gone  back  there  to 
await  her.  Ann  moved  on  tiptoe  round  the  table; 
picking  up  the  cloak  she  enveloped  herself  in  it  and 
pulled  the  hood  over  her  head.  Having  glanced  with 
caution  through  the  front  window  to  the  farmyard,  she 
coughed  and  shuffled  her  feet  on  the  flags.  The  door 
of  the  pantry  moved  slowly  open ;  the  piercing  ardour 
of  his  glance  did  not  abash  her,  but  her  curious  appear- 
ance in  his  cloak  moved  his  shrill  laughter.  As  he 
approached  her  she  seized  his  wrists  and  drew  him  to 
the  door  that  led  into  the  orchard  at  the  back  of  the 
house ;  she  opened  it  and  pushed  him  out,  saying,  "Go 
on,  go  on."  She  then  locked  the  door  against  him. 
He  walked  up  and  down  outside  the  window  making 
lewd  signs  to  her.  He  dared  not  call  out  for  fear  of 
attracting  attention  from  the  farmyard  in  front  of  the 
house.  He  stood  still,  shivered,  pretended  in  dumb 
show  that  he  was  frozen.  She  stood  at  the  window 
in  front  of  him  and  nestled  provocatively  in  his  cloak. 
But  when  he  put  his  lips  against  the  pane  he  drew  the 
gleam  of  her  languishing  eyes  closer  and  closer  to  meet 
his  kiss  through  the  glass.  Then  she  stood  up,  took 
ofT  tiie  black  cloak,  and  putting  her  hand  into  her  bosom 
brought  out  the  three  nuts,  which  she  held  up  to  him. 
She  stood  there  fronting  the  Spaniard  enticingly, 
dropped  the  nuts  back  into  her  bosom  one  .  .  .  two 
.  .  .  three  .  .  .  and  then  went  and  opened  the  door. 
In  a  few  weeks  the  contract  was  finished,  and  one 


274  COTTON 

bright  morning  the  Spaniard  bade  them  each  farewell. 
Neither  of  them  knew,  so  much  was  their  intercourse 
restricted,  that  he  was  about  to  depart,  and  Ann 
watched  him  with  perplexity  and  unhappiness  in  her 
eyes. 

"Ah,  you  Cotton,  good-bye  I  say,  and  you  sehora, 
I  say  good-bye." 

With  a  deep  bow  he  kissed  the  rough  hand  of  the 
blushing  country  woman.  "Bueno."  He  turned  with 
his  kit  bag  upon  his  shoulder,  waved  them  an  airy 
hand  and  was  gone. 

On  the  following  Sunday  Jan  returned  from  a  visit 
in  the  evening  and  found  the  house  empty;  Ann  was 
out,  an  unusual  thing,  for  their  habits  were  fixed  and 
deliberate  as  the  stars  in  the  sky.  The  simsetting  light 
was  lying  in  meek  patches  on  the  kitchen  wall,  turn- 
ing the  polished  iron  pans  to  the  brightness  of  silver, 
reddening  the  string  of  onions,  and  filling  glass  jars 
with  solid  crystal.  He  had  just  sat  down  to  remove 
his  heavy  boots  when  Ann  came  in,  not  at  all  the  worka- 
day Ann  but  dressed  in  her  best  clothes  smelling  of 
scent  and  swishing  her  stiff  linen. 

"Hullo,"  said  Jan,  surprised  at  his  wife's  pink  face 
and  sparkling  eyes,  "bin  church?" 

"Yes,  church,"  she  replied,  and  sat  down  in  her 
finery.  Her  husband  ambled  about  the  room  for  vari- 
ous purposes  and  did  not  notice  her  furtive  dabbing 
of  her  eyes  with  her  handkerchief.  Tears  from  Ann 
were  inconceivable. 

The  year  moved  through  its  seasons,  the  lattermath 
hay  was  duly  mown,  the  corn  stooked  in  rows ;  Ann  was 


COTTON  275 

with  child  and  the  ridge  of  her  stays  was  no  longer 
visihlc  behind  her  plump  shoulders.  Fruit  dropped 
from  the  orchard  houghs,  the  quince  was  gathered  from 
the  wall,  the  hunt  swejit  over  the  field.  Christmas  came 
and  went,  and  then  a  child  was  born  to  the  Cottons,  a 
dusky  boy,  who  was  shortly  christened  Juan. 

"He  was  a  kind  chap,  that  man."  said  Ann.  "and 
we've  no  relations  to  please,  and  it's  like  your  name — 
and  your  name  is  outlandish !" 

Jan's  delight  was  now  to  sit  and  muse  upon  the  child 
as  he  had  ever  mused  upon  chickens,  lambs  and  calves. 
"O,  ah  !"  he  would  say,  popping  a  great  finger  into  the 
babe's  mouth,  "O,  ah!"  But  when,  as  occasionally 
happened,  the  babe  squinted  at  him.  a  singular  fancy 
would  stir  in  his  mind,  only  to  slide  away  before  it 
could  congeal  into  the  likeness  of  suspicion. 

Snow,  when  it  falls  near  spring  upon  those  Cotswold 
hills,  falls  deeply  and  the  lot  of  the  husbandmen  is  hard. 
Sickness,  when  it  comes,  comes  with  a  flail  and  in  its 
hobnailed  boots.  Contagious  and  baffling,  disease  had 
stricken  the  district;  in  mid  March  great  numbers  of 
the  country  folk  were  sick  abed,  hospitals  were  full, 
and  doctors  were  harried  from  one  dawn  to  another. 
Jan  would  come  in  of  an  evening  and  recite  the  calen- 
dar of  the  day's  dooms  gathered  from  men  of  the 
adjacent  fields. 

"Amos  Green  'ave  gone  then,  pore  o'  chap." 

"Pore  Amos,"  the  pitying  Ann  would  say,  wrapping 
her  babe  more  warmly. 

"And  Buttifant's  coachman." 

"Dear,  dear,  what  'ull  us  all  come  to !" 


276  COTTON 

"Mrs.  Jocelyn  was   worse  'en  bad  this  morning." 

"Never,  Jan!     Us'll  miss  'er." 

"Ah,  and  they  do  say  Parson  Rudwent  won't  last  out 
the  night." 

"And  whom's  to  bury  us  then?"  asked  Ann. 

The  invincible  sickness  came  to  the  farm.  Ann  one 
morning  was  weary,  sickly,  and  could  not  rise  from 
her  bed.  Jan  attended  her  in  his  clumsy  way  and  kept 
coming  in  from  the  snow  to  give  her  comforts  and 
food,  but  at  eve  she  was  in  fever  and  lay  helpless  in 
the  bed  with  the  child  at  her  breast.  Jan  went  off  for 
the  doctor,  not  to  the  nearest  village  for  he  knew  that 
quest  to  be  hopeless,  but  to  a  tiny  town  high  on  the 
wolds  two  miles  away.  The  moon,  large,  sharp  and 
round,  blazed  in  the  sky  and  its  light  sparkled  upon 
the  rolling  fields  of  snow;  his  boots  were  covered  at 
every  muffled  step ;  the  wind  sighed  in  the  hedges  and 
he  shook  himself  for  warmth.  He  came  to  the  hill 
ai  last;  halfway  up  was  a  church,  its  windows  glow- 
ing with  warm-looking  light  and  its  bells  pealing  cheer- 
fully. He  passed  on  and  higher  up  met  a  priest  trot- 
ting downwards  in  black  cassock  and  saintly  hat,  his 
hands  tucked  into  his  wide  sleeves,  trotting  to  keep 
himself  warm  and  humming  as  he  went.  Jan  asked  a 
direction  of  the  priest,  who  gave  it  with  many  circum- 
stances of  detail,  and  after  he  had  parted  he  could 
hear  the  priest's  voice  call  still  further  instructions 
after  ;him  as  long  as  he  was  in  sight.  "O.  ah !"  said 
Jan  each  time,  turning  and  waving  his  hand.  But  after 
all  his  mission  was  a  vain  one;  the  doctor  was  out  and 
away,   it  was   improbable  that  he  would  be  able  to 


COTTON  277 

come,  and  the  simple  man  turned  home  with  a  dull 
lieart.  Wlien  he  reached  the  farm  Ann  was  delirious 
but  still  clung  to  the  dusky  child,  sleeping  snugly  at 
her  bosom.  The  man  sat  up  all  night  before  the  fire 
waiting  vainly  for  the  doctor,  and  the  next  day  he 
himself  became  ill.  And  strangely  enough  as  he 
worked  among  his  beasts  the  crude  suspicion  in  his 
mind  about  the  child  took  shape  and  worked  without 
resistance  until  he  came  to  suspect  and  by  easy  degrees 
to  apprehend  fully  the  time  and  occasion  of  Ann's 
duplicity. 

"Nasty  dirty  filthy  thing!''  he  murmured  from  his 
sick  mind.  He  was  brushing  the  dried  mud  from  the 
hocks  of  an  old  bay  horse,  but  it  was  not  of  his  horse 
he  was  thinking.  Later  he  stood  in  the  rickyard  and 
stared  across  the  road  at  the  light  in  their  bedroom. 
Throwing  down  the  fork  with  which  he  had  been  toss- 
ing beds  of  straw  he  shook  his  fist  at  the  window  and 
cried  out :     "I  hate  'er,  I  does,  nasty  dirty  filthy  thing!" 

When  he  went  into  the  house  he  replenished  the  fire 
but  found  he  could  take  no  further  care  for  himself 
or  the  sick  woman;  he  just  stupidly  doffed  his  clothes 
and  in  utter  misery  and  recklessness  stretched  himself 
in  the  bed  with  Ann.  He  lay  for  a  long  while  with  ach- 
ing brows,  a  snake-strangled  feeling  in  every  limb,  an 
unquenchable  drouth  in  his  throat,  and  his  wife's  body 
burning  beside  him.  Outside  the  night  was  bright, 
beautiful  and  still  sparkling  with  frost;  quiet,  as  if  the 
wind  had  been  wedged  tightly  in  some  far  comer  of  the 
sky,  except  for  a  cracked  insulator  on  the  telegraph 
pole  just  near  the  window,  that  rattled  and  hummed 


278  COTTON 

with  monstrous  uncare.  That,  and  the  ticking  of  the 
clock !  The  hghted  candle  fell  from  its  sconce  on  the 
mantelpiece ;  he  let  it  remain  and  it  flickered  out.  The 
glow  from  the  coals  was  thick  upon  the  ceiling  and 
whitened  the  brown  ware  of  the  teapot  on  the  untidy 
hearth.  Falling  asleep  at  last  he  began  dreaming  at 
once,  so  it  seemed,  of  the  shrill  cry  of  lambs  hailing 
him  out  of  wild  snow-covered  valleys,  so  wild  and  pro- 
longed were  the  cries  that  they  woke  him,  and  he  knew 
himself  to  be  ill,  very  ill  indeed.  The  child  was  wail- 
ing piteously,  the  room  was  in  darkness,  the  fire  out, 
but  the  man  did  not  stir,  he  could  not  care,  what  could 
he  do  with  that  flame  behind  his  eyes  and  the  misery  of 
death  consuming  him?  But  the  child's  cries  were  un- 
ceasing and  moved  even  his  numbed  mind  to  some 
effort.  "Ann!"  he  gasped.  The  poor  wife  did  not 
reply.  "Ann !"  He  put  his  hand  out  to  nudge  her ;  in 
one  instant  the  blood  froze  in  his  veins  and  then  boiled 
again.  Ann  was  cold,  her  body  hard  as  a  wall,  dead 
.  .  .  dead.  Stupor  returned  upon  him;  the  child,  un- 
helped,  cried  on,  clasped  to  that  frozen  breast  until  the 
man  again  roused  himself  to  effort.  Putting  his  great 
hands  across  the  dead  wife  he  dragged  the  child  from 
her  arms  into  the  warmth  beside  him,  gasping  as  he  did 
so,  "Nasty  .  .  .  dirty  ,  .  .  thing."  It  exhausted  him 
but  the  child  was  still  unpacified  and  again  he  roused 
himself  and  felt  for  a  biscuit  on  the  table  beside  the 
bed.  He  crushed  a  piece  in  his  mouth  and  putting  the 
soft  pap  upon  his  finger  fed  thus  the  hungry  child  un- 
til it  was  stilled.  By  now  the  white  counterpane  spread 
vast  like  a  sea,  heaving  and  rocking  with  a  million 


COTTON  279 

waves,  the  framework  of  the  bedstead  moving  like  the 
tackle  of  tossed  ships.  He  knew  there  was  only  one 
way  to  stem  that  sickening  movement.  "I  hate  'er,  I 
does,"  rose  again  upon  his  lips,  and  drawing  up  his 
legs  that  were  at  once  chilly  and  streaming  with  sweat, 
full  of  his  new  hatred  he  urged  with  all  his  might  his 
wife's  cold  body  to  the  edge  of  the  bed  and  withdrew 
the  bedclothes.  Dead  Ann  toppled  and  slid  from  him 
and  lier  body  clumped  upon  the  floor  with  a  fall  that 
shook  the  room ;  the  candle  fell  from  the  mantelpiece, 
bounced  from  the  teapot  and  rolled  stupidly  along  the 
bare  boards  under  the  bed.  "Hate  'er!"  groaned  the 
man;  he  hung  swaying  above  the  woman  and  tried  to 
spit  upon  her.  He  sank  back  again  to  the  pillow  and 
the  child,  murmuring  "O,  ah!"  and  gathering  it  clumsily 
to  his  breast.  He  became  tranquil  then,  and  the  hol- 
low-sounding clock  beat  a  dull  rhythm  into  his  mind, 
until  that  sound  faded  out  with  all  light  and  sound,  and 
Jan  fell  into  sleep  and  died,  with  the  dusky  child 
clasped  in  his  hard  dead  arms. 


A  BROADSHEET  BALLAD 


A   BROADSHEET   BALLAD 

AT  noon  the  tiler  and  the  mason  stepped  down 
from  the  roof  of  the  village  church  which 
they  were  repairing  and  crossed  over  the  road 
to  the  tavern  to  eat  their  dinner.  It  had  been  a  nice 
Httle  morning,  but  there  were  clouds  massing  in  the 
south ;  Sam  the  tiler  remarked  that  it  looked  like  thun- 
der. The  two  men  sat  in  the  dim  little  taproom  eating, 
Bob  the  mason  at  the  same  time  reading  from  a  news- 
paper an  account  of  a  trial  for  murder. 

"I  dunno  what  thunder  looks  like,"  Bob  said,  "but 
I  reckon  this  chap  is  going  to  be  hung,  though  I  can't 
rightly  say  for  why.  To  my  thinking  he  didn't  do  it  at 
all :  but  murder's  a  bloody  thing  and  someone  ought  to 
suffer  for  it." 

"I  don't  think,"  spluttered  Sam  as  he  impaled  a  flat 
piece  of  beetroot  on  the  point  of  a  pocket-knife  and 
prepared  to  contemplate  it  with  patience  until  his 
stuffed  mouth  was  ready  to  receive  it,  "he  ought  to 
be  hung." 

"There  can  be  no  other  end  for  him  though,  with 
a  mob  of  lawyers  like  that,  and  a  judge  like  that,  and 
a  jury  too  .  .  .  why  the  rope's  half  round  his  neck 
this   minute;   he'll   be   in   glory   within   a  month,   they 

283 


284  A  BROADSHEET  BALLAD 

only  have  three  Sundays,  you  know,  between  the 
sentence  and  the  execution.  Well,  hark  at  that  rain 
then !" 

A  shower  that  began  as  a  playful  sprinkle  grew  to 
a  powerful  steady  summer  downpour.  It  splashed 
in  the  open  window  and  the  dim  room  grew  more  dim 
and  cool. 

"Hanging's  a  dreadful  thing,"  continued  Sam,  "and 
'tis  often  unjust  I've  no  doubt,  I've  no  doubt  at  all." 

"Unjust!  I  tell  you  ...  at  the  majority  of  trials 
those  who  give  their  evidence  mostly  knows  nothing 
at  all  about  the  matter;  them  as  knows  a  lot — they 
stays  at  home  and  don't  budge,  not  likely !" 

"No?     But  why?" 

"Why?  They  has  their  reasons.  I  know  that,  I 
knows  it  for  truth  .  .  .  hark  at  that  rain,  it's  made  the 
room  feel  cold." 

They  watched  the  downfall  in  complete  silence  for 
some  moments. 

"Hanging's  a  dreadful  thing,"  Sam  at  length  re- 
peated, with  almost  a  sigh. 

"I  can  tell  you  a  tale  about  that,  Sam,  in  a  minute," 
said  the  other.  He  began  to  fill  his  pipe  from  Sam's 
brass  box  which  was  labelled  cough  lozenges  and 
smelled  of  paregoric. 

"Just  about  ten  years  ago  I  was  working  over  in 
Cotswold  country.  I  remember  I'd  been  in  to  Glou- 
cester one  Saturday  afternoon  and  it  rained.  I  was 
jogging  along  home  in  a  carrier's  van;  I  never  seen  it 
rain  like  that  afore,  no,  nor  ever  afterwards,  not  like 
that.     B-r-r-r-r!    it    came    down  .  .  .  bashing!     And 


A   BROADSHEET  BALLAD  285 

we  come  to  a  cross  roads  where  there's  a  pubhc 
house  called  The  Wheel  of  Fortune,  very  lonely  and 
onsheltered  it  is  just  there.  I  scc'd  a  young  woman 
standing  in  the  porch  awaiting  us,  but  the  carrier  was 
wet  and  tired  and  angry  or  something  and  wouldn't 
stop.  'No  room' — he  bawled  out  to  her — 'full  up, 
can't  take  you!'  and  he  drove  on.  'For  the  love  o' 
God.  Mate,' — I  says — 'pull  up  and  take  that  young 
creature!  She's  .  .  .  she's  .  .  .  can't  you  see!'  'But 
I'm  all  behind  as  'tis' — he  shouts  to  me — 'you  know 
your  gospel,  don't  you :  time  and  tide  wait  for  no  man  ?' 
'Ah,  but  dammit  all,  they  always  call  for  a  feller' — I 
says.  With  that  he  turned  round  and  we  drove  back 
for  the  girl.  She  dumb  in  and  sat  on  my  knees;  I 
squat  on  a  tub  of  vinegar,  there  was  nowhere  else  and 
I  was  right  and  all,  she  was  going  on  for  a  birth.  Well, 
the  old  van  rattled  away  for  six  or  seven  miles ;  when- 
ever it  stopped  you  could  hear  the  rain  clattering  on  the 
tarpaulin,  or  sounding  outside  on  the  grass  as  if  it  was 
breathing  hard,  and  the  old  horse  steamed  and  shivered 
with  it.  I  had  knowed  the  girl  once  in  a  friendly  way. 
a  pretty  young  creature,  but  now  she  was  white  and 
sorrowful  and  wouldn't  say  much.  By  and  bye  we 
came  to  another  cross  roads  near  a  village,  and  she  got 
out  there.  'Good  day,  my  gal' — I  says,  affable  like, 
and  'Thank  you,  sir,' — says  she.  and  off  she  popped  in 
the  rain  with  her  umbrella  up.  A  rare  pretty  girl, 
quite  young,  I'd  met  her  before,  a  girl  you  could  get 
uncommon  fond  of.  you  know,  but  I  didn't  meet  her 
afterwards,  she  was  mixed  up  in  a  bad  business.  It  all 
happened  in  the  next  six  months  while  I  was  Avorking 


286  A  BROADSHEET  BALLAD 

round  these  parts.  Everybody  knew  of  it.  This  girl's 
name  was  Edith  and  she  had  a  younger  sister  Agnes, 
Their  father  was  old  Harry  Mallerton,  kept  The 
British  Oak  at  North  Quainy ;  he  stuttered.  Well,  this 
Edith  had  a  love  affair  with  a  young  chap  William,  and 
having  a  very  loving  nature  she  behaved  foolish.  Then 
she  couldn't  bring  the  chap  up  to  the  scratch  nohow  by 
herself,  and  of  course  she  was  afraid  to  tell  her  mother 
or  father :  you  know  how  girls  are  after  being  so 
pesky  natural,  they  fear,  O  they  do  fear !  But  soon  it 
couldn't  be  hidden  any  longer  as  she  was  living  at 
home  with  them  all,  so  she  wrote  a  letter  to  her  mother. 
'Dear  Mother,'  she  wrote,  and  told  her  all  about  her 
trouble. 

"By  all  accounts  the  mother  was  angry  as  an  old  lion, 
but  Harry  took  it  calm  like  and  sent  for  young  William, 
who'd  not  come  at  first.  He  lived  close  by  in  the  village 
so  they  went  down  at  last  and  fetched  him. 

"  'AH  right,  yes,'  he  said,  'I'll  do  what's  lav/ful  to  be 
done.     There  you  are,  I  can't  say  no  fairer,  that  I  can't.' 

"  'No,'  they  said,  'you  can't.' 

"So  he  kissed  the  girl  and  off  he  went,  promising 
to  call  in  and  settle  affairs  in  a  day  or  two.  The  next 
day  Agnes,  which  was  the  younger  girl,  she  also  wrote 
a  note  to  her  mother  telling  her  some  more  strange 
news : 

"  'God  above !'  the  mother  cried  out,  'can  it  be  true, 
both  of  you  girls,  my  own  daughters,  and  by  the  same 
man !  whatever  were  you  thinking  on,  both  of  ye ! 
Whatever  can  be  done  now !'  " 

"What !"  ejaculated  Sam,  "both  on  'em,  both  on  'em !" 


A   BROADSHEET  BALLAD  287 

"As  true  as  God's  my  mercy — both  on  'em — same 
chap.  Ah!  Mrs.  Mallerton  was  afraid  to  tell  her 
husband  at  first,  for  old  Harry  was  the  devil  born 
again  when  he  were  roused  up,  so  she  sent  for  young 
William  herself,  who'd  not  come  again,  of  course,  not 
likely.  But  they  made  him  come,  O  yes,  when  they 
told  the  girls'  father. 

"  'Well,  may  I  go  to  my  d  .  .  .  d  .  .  .  d  .  .  .  dam- 
nation at  once!'  roared  old  Harry — he  stuttered,  you 
know — 'at  once,  if  that  ain't  a  good  one!'  So  he  took 
ofT  his  coat,  he  took  up  a  stick,  he  walked  down  the 
street  to  William  and  cut  him  off  his  legs.  Then  he 
beat  him  until  he  howled  for  his  mercy,  and  you  couldn't 
stop  old  Harry  once  he  were  roused  up — he  was  the 
devil  born  again.  They  do  say  as  he  beat  him  for  a 
solid  hour;  I  can't  say  as  to  that,  but  then  old  Harry 
picked  him  up  and  carried  him  off  to  The  British  Oak 
on  his  own  back,  and  threw  him  down  in  his  own 
k'tchen  between  his  own  two  girls  like  a  dead  dog. 
They  do  say  that  the  little  one  Agnes  flew  at  her  father 
like  a  raging  cat  until  he  knocked  her  senseless  with  a 
clout  over  head ;  rough  man  he  was." 

"Well,  a'  called  for  it,  sure,"  commented  Sam. 

"Her  did,"  agreed  Bob,  "but  she  was  the  quietest 
known  girl  for  miles  round  those  parts,  very  shy  and 
quiet." 

"A  shady  lane  breeds  mud,"  said  Sam. 

"What  do  you  say  ? — O  ah  ! — mud,  yes.  But  pretty 
girls  both,  girls  you  could  get  very  fond  of.  skin  like 
apple  bloom,  and  as  like  a'^  two  pinks  thcv  were.  Thcv 
had  to  decide  which  of  them  William  was  to  marry." 


288  A  BROADSHEET  BALLAD 

"Of  course,  ah !" 

"  Til  marry  Agnes' — says  he. 

"  'You'll  not' — says  the  old  man — 'You'll  marry 
Edie.' 

"  'No,  I  won't,' — William  says — 'it's  Agnes  I  love 
and  I'll  be  married  to  her  or  I  won't  be  married  to  e'er 
of  'em.'  All  the  time  Edith  sat  quiet,  dumb  as  a 
shovel,  never  a  word,  crying  a  bit;  but  they  do  say 
the  young  one  went  on  like  a  ...  a  young  .  .  .  Jew." 

"The  Jezebel!"  commented  Sam. 

"You  may  say  it;  but  wait,  my  man,  just  wait.  An- 
other cup  of  beer.  We  can't  go  back  to  church  until 
this  humbugging  rain  have  stopped." 

"No,  that  we  can't." 

"Its  my  belief  the  'bugging  rain  won't  stop  this  side 
of  four  o'clock." 

"And  if  the  roof  don't  hold  it  ofif  it  'ull  spoil  they 
Lord's  commandments  that's  just  done  up  on  the  chan- 
cel front." 

"O.  they  be  dry  by  now,"  Bob  spoke  reassuringly 
and  then  continued  his  tale.  "  'I'll  marry  Agnes  or  I 
won't  marry  nobody' — William  says — and  they  couldn't 
budge  him.  No,  old  Harry  cracked  on  but  he  wouldn't 
have  it,  and  at  last  Harry  says :  'It's  like  this.'  He 
pulls  a  half  crown  out  of  his  pocket  and  'Heads  it's 
Agnes,'  he  says,  'or  tails  it's  Edith,'  he  says." 

"Never !  Ha !  Ha !"  cried  Sam. 

"  'Heads  it's  Agnes,  tails  it's  Edie,'  so  help  me  God. 
And  it  come  down  Agnes,  yes,  heads  it  was — Agnes — 
and  so  there  they  were." 

"And  they  lived  happy  ever  after  ?" 


A   BROADSHEET  BALLAD  289 

"Happy !  You  don't  know  your  human  nature, 
Sam;  wherever  was  you  brought  up?  'Heads  it's 
Agnes,'  said  old  Harry,  and  at  that  xA.gncs  flung  her 
arms  round  William's  neck  and  was  for  going  off  with 
him  then  and  there,  ha!  But  this  is  how  it  happened 
about  that.  William  hadn't  any  kindred,  he  was  a 
lodger  in  the  village,  and  his  landlady  wouldn't  have 
him  in  her  house  one  mortal  hour  when  she  heard  of 
it ;  give  him  the  rightabout  there  and  then.  He  couldn't 
get  lodgings  anywhere  else,  nobody  would  have  any- 
thing to  do  with  him,  so  of  course,  for  safety's  sake, 
old  Harry  had  to  take  him,  and  there  they  all  lived 
together  at  The  British  Oak — all  in  one  happy  family. 
But  they  girls  couldn't  bide  the  sight  of  each  other,  so 
their  father  cleaned  up  an  old  outhouse  in  his  yard  that 
was  used  for  carts  and  hens  and  put  William  and  his 
Agnes  out  in  it.  And  there  they  had  to  bide.  They 
had  a  couple  of  chairs,  a  sofa,  and  a  bed  and  that  kind 
of  thing,  and  the  young  one  made  it  quite  snug." 

'"Twas  a  hard  thing  for  that  other,  that  Edie,  Bob." 
"It  was  hard.  Sam,  in  a  way,  and  all  this  was  happen- 
ing just  afore  I  met  her  in  the  carrier's  van.  She  was 
very  sad  and  solemn  then ;  a  pretty  girl,  one  you  could 
like.  Ah,  you  may  choke  me,  but  there  they  lived 
together.  Edie  never  opened  her  lips  to  either  of  them 
again,  and  her  father  sided  with  her,  too.  What  was 
worse,  it  came  out  after  the  marriage  that  Agnes  was 
quite  free  of  trouble — it  was  only  a  trumped-up  ti^ame 
between  her  and  this  William  because  he  fancied  her 
better  than  the  other  one.  And  they  never  had  no  child, 
them  two,  though  when  poor  Edie's  mischance  came 


290  A  BROADSHEET  BALLAD 

along  I  be  damned  if  Agnes  weren't  fonder  of  it  than 
its  own  mother,  a  jolly  sight  more  fonder,  and  William 
— he  fair  worshipped  it." 

"You  don't  say!" 

"I  do.  'Twas  a  rum  go,  that,  and  Agnes  worshipped 
it,  a  fact,  can  prove  it  by  scores  o'  people  to  this  day, 
scores,  in  them  parts.  William  and  Agnes  worshipped 
it,  and  Edie — she  just  looked  on,  'long  of  it  all,  in  the 
same  house  with  them,  though  she  never  opened  her 
lips  again  to  her  young  sister  to  the  day  of  her  death." 

"Ah,  she  died?  Well,  it's  the  only  way  out  of  such 
a  tangle,  poor  woman." 

"You're  sympathizing  with  the  wrong  party."  Bob 
filled  his  pipe  again  from  the  brass  box ;  he  ignited  it 
with  deliberation;  going  to  the  open  window  he  spat 
into  a  puddle  in  the  road.  "The  wrong  party,  Sam; 
'twas  Agnes  that  died.  She  was  found  on  the  sofa  one 
morning  stone  dead,  dead  as  a  adder." 

"God  bless  me!"  murmured  Sam. 

"Poisoned !"  added  Bob,  puffing  serenely. 

"Poisoned !" 

Bob  repeated  the  word  poisoned.  "This  was  the 
way  of  it,"  he  continued:  "One  morning  the  mother 
went  out  in  the  yard  to  collect  her  eggs,  and  she  began 
calling  out  'Edie,  Edie.  here  a  minute,  come  and  look 
where  that  hen  have  laid  her  egg]  I  would  never  have 
believed  it,' — she  says.  And  when  Edie  went  out  her 
mother  led  her  round  the  back  of  the  outhouse,  and 
there  on  the  top  of  a  wall  this  hen  had  laid  an  egg. 
*I  would  never  have  believed  it,  Edie' — she  says — 
'scooped  out  a  nest  there  beautiful,  ain't  she?     I  won- 


A   BROADSHEET   BALLAD  291 

dered  where  her  was  laying.  T'other  morning  the 
dog  brought  an  egg  round  in  his  mouth  and  laid  it  on 
the  doormat.  There  now  Aggie,  Aggie,  here  a  minute, 
come  and  look  where  the  hen  have  laid  that  egg.'  And 
as  Aggie  didn't  answer  the  mother  went  in  and  found 
her  on  the  sofa  in  the  outhouse,  stone  dead." 

"How'd  they  account  for  it?"  asked  Sam,  after  a 
brief  interval. 

"That's  what  brings  me  to  the  point  about  that  young 
feller  that's  going  to  be  hung,"  said  Bob,  tapping  the 
newspaper  that  lay  upon  the  bench,  "I  don't  know 
what  would  lie  between  two  young  women  in  a  wran- 
gle of  that  sort;  some  would  get  over  it  quick,  but 
some  would  never  sleep  soundly  any  more  not  for  a 
minute  of  their  mortal  lives.  Edie  must  have  been  one 
of  that  sort.  There's  people  living  there  now  as  could 
tell  a  lot  if  they'd  a  mind  to  it.  Some  knowed  all 
about  it,  could  tell  you  the  very  shop  where  Edie 
managed  to  get  hold  of  the  poison,  and  could  describe 
to  me  or  to  you  just  how  she  administrated  it  in  a  glass 
of  barley  water.  Old  Harry  knew  all  about  it,  he 
knew  all  about  everything,  but  he  favoured  Edith  and 
he  never  budged  a  word.  Clever  old  chap  was  Harry, 
and  nothing  came  out  against  Edie  at  the  inquest — 
nor  the  trial  neither." 

"Was  there  a  trial  then?" 

"There  was  a  kind  of  a  trial.  Naturally.  A  beau- 
tiful trial.  The  police  came  and  fetched  poor  William. 
They  took  him  away  and  in  due  course  he  was  hanged." 

"William!     But  what  had  he  got  to  do  with  it?" 

"Nothing.     It   was    rough   on    him.   but   he   hadn't 


292  A  BROADSHEET  BALLAD 

played  straight  and  so  nobody  struck  up  for  him.  They 
made  out  a  case  against  him — there  was  some  onlucky 
bit  of  evidence  which  I'll  take  my  oath  old  Harry  knew 
something  about — and  William  was  done  for.  Ah, 
when  things  take  a  turn  against  you  it's  as  certain  as 
twelve  o'clock,  when  they  take  a  turn ;  you  get  no  more 
chance  than  a  rabbit  from  a  weasel.  It's  like  dropping 
your  matches  into  a  stream,  you  needn't  waste  the 
bending  of  your  back  to  pick  them  out — they're  no 
good  on,  they'll  never  strike  again.  And  Edith,  she 
sat  in  court  through  it  all,  very  white  and  trembling 
and  sorrowful,  but  when  the  judge  put  his  black  cap 
on  they  do  say  she  blushed  and  looked  across  at  William 
and  gave  a  bit  of  a  smile.  Well,  she  had  to  suffer 
for  his  doings,  so  why  shouldn't  he  suffer  for  hers. 
That's  how  I  look  at  it.  .  .  ." 

"But  God-a-mighty  ...    !" 

"Yes,  God-a-mighty  knows.  Pretty  girls  they  were, 
both,  and  as  like  as  two  pinks." 

There  was  quiet  for  some  moments  while  the  tiler 
and  the  mason  emptied  their  cups  of  beer.  "I  think," 
said  Sam  then,  "the  rain's  give  over  now." 

"Ah,  that  it  has,"  cried  Bob.  "Let's  go  and  do  a 
bid  more  on  this  'bugging  church  or  she  won't  be  done 
afore  Christmas." 


POMONA'S  BABE 


POMONA'S  BABE 

JOHNNY  FLYNN  was  then  seventeen  years  old. 
At  that  age  you  could  not  call  him  boy  without 
vexing  him,  or  man  without  causing  him  to  blush 
— his  teasing,  ruddy  and  uproarious  mother  delighted 
to  produce  either  or  both  of  these  manifestations  for 
her  ofF-spring  was  a  pale  mild  creature — but  he  had 
given  a  deal  of  thought  to  many  manly  questions. 
Marriage,  for  instance,  was  one  of  these.  That  was 
an  institution  he  admired  but  whose  joys,  whatever 
they  were,  he  was  not  anxious  to  experience;  its  dif- 
ficulties and  disasters  as  ironically  outlined  by  the 
widow  Flynn  were  the  subject  of  his  grossest  scepti- 
cism, scepticism  in  general  being  not  the  least  promi- 
nent  characteristic  of   Johnny   Flynn. 

Certainly  his  sister  Pomona  was  not  married;  she 
was  only  sixteen,  an  age  too  early  for  such  bliss,  but 
all  the  same  she  was  going  to  have  a  baby;  he  had 
quarrelled  with  his  mother  about  that.  He  quarrelled 
with  his  mother  about  most  things,  she  delighted  in 
quarrels,  they  amused  her  very  much ;  but  on  this 
occasion  she  was  really  very  angry,  or  she  pretended 
to  be  so — which  was  worse,  much  worse  than  the  real 

thing. 

296 


296  POMONA'S  BABE 

The  Flynns  were  poor  people,  quite  poor,  living  in 
two  top-floor  rooms  at  the  house  of  a  shoemaker,  also 
moderately  poor,  whose  pelting  and  hammering  of 
soles  at  evening  were  a  durable  grievance  to  Johnny. 
He  was  fond  of  the  shoemaker,  a  kind  bulky  tall  man 
of  fifty,  though  he  did  not  like  the  shoemaker's  wife, 
as  bulky  as  her  husband  and  as  tall  but  not  kind  to 
him  or  to  anything  except  Johnny  himself ;  nor  did  he 
like  any  of  the  other  lodgers,  of  whom  there  were 
several,  all  without  exception  beyond  the  reach  of 
affluence.  The  Flynn  apartments  afforded  a  bedroom 
in  front  for  Mrs.  Flynn  and  Pomona,  a  room  where 
Johnny  seldom  intruded,  never  without  a  strained  sense 
of  sanctity  similar  to  the  feeling  he  experienced  when 
entering  an  empty  church  as  he  sometimes  did.  He 
slept  in  the  other  room,  the  living  room,  an  arrange- 
ment that  also  annoyed  him.  He  was  easily  annoyed, 
but  he  could  never  go  to  bed  until  mother  and  sister 
had  retired,  and  for  the  same  reason  he  had  always  to 
rise  before  they  got  up,  an  exasperating  abuse  of 
domestic  privilege. 

One  night  he  had  just  slipped  happily  into  his  bed  and 
begun  to  read  a  book  called  "Rasselas,"  which  the  odd- 
eyed  man  at  the  public  library  had  commended  to  him, 
when  his  mother  returned  to  the  room,  first  tapping 
at  the  door,  for  Johnny  was  a  prude  as  she  knew  not 
only  from  instinct  and  observation  but  from  protests 
v.'hich  had  occasionally  been  addressed  to  her  by  the 
indignant  boy.  She  came  in  now  only  half  clad,  in 
petticoat  and   stockinged    feet,   her  arms   quite  bare. 


POMONA'S  BABE  297 

They  were  powerful  arms  as  they  had  need  to  be,  for 
she  was  an  ironer  of  hnen  at  a  laundry,  but  they 
were  nice  to  look  at  and  sometimes  Johnny  liked 
looking  at  them,  though  he  did  not  care  for  her  to  run 
about  like  that  very  often.  Mrs.  Flynn  sat  down  at 
the  foot  of  his  couch  and  stared  at  her  son. 

"Johnny,"  she  began  steadily,  but  paused  to  rub  her 
forehead  with  her  thick  white  shiny  fingers.  "I  don't 
know  how  to  tell  you,  I'm  sure,  or  what  you'll  say.  .  .  ." 
Johnny  shook  "Rasselas"  rather  impatiently  and  heaved 
a  protesting  sigh.  ''I  can't  think,"  continued  his 
mother,  "no,  I  can't  think  that  it's  our  Pomony,  but 
there  she  is  and  it's  got  to  be  done,  I  must  tell  you ; 
besides  you're  the  only  man  in  our  family  now,  so  it's 
only  right  for  you.  you  see,  and  she's  going  to  Imve  a 
baby.     Our  Pomony !" 

The  boy  turned  his  face  to  the  wall,  although  his 
mother  was  not  looking  at  him — she  was  staring  at  that 
hole  in  the  carpet  near  the  fender.  At  last  he  said, 
"Humph  .  .  .  well?"  And  as  his  mother  did  not  say 
anything,  he  added.  "What  about  it,  I  don't  mind?" 
Mrs.  Flynn  was  horrified  at  his  unconcern,  or  she  pre- 
tended to  be  so ;  Johnny  was  never  sure  about  the 
genuineness  of  her  moods.  It  was  most  unfilial.  but 
he  was  like  that — so  was  Mrs.  Flynn.  Now  she  cried 
out,  "You'll  lia"cr  to  mind,  there,  you  must.  I  can't 
take  everything  on  my  own  shoulders.  You're  the  only 
man  left  in  our  family  now.  you  must,  Johnny.  What 
are  we  to  do?" 

He  glared  at  the  wallpaper  a  foot   from  his  eyes. 


298  POMONA'S  BABE 

It  had  an  unbearable  pattern  of  blue  but  otherwise  in- 
describable flowers ;  he  had  it  in  his  mind  to  have  some 
other  pattern  there — some  day. 

"Eh?"  asked  his  mother  sharply,  striking  the  foot  of 
the  bed  with  her  fist. 

"Why  .  .  .  there's  nothing  to  be  done  .  .  .  now 
...  I  suppose.''  He  was  blushing  furiously.  "How 
did  it  happen,  when  will  it  be?" 

"It's  a  man  she  knows,  he  got  hold  of  her,  his  name 
is  Stringer.  Another  two  months  about.  Stringer, 
Hadn't  you  noticed  anything?  Everybody  else  has. 
You  are  a  funny  boy,  I  can't  make  you  out  at  all, 
Johnny,  I  can't  make  you  out.  Stringer  his  name  is, 
but  I'll  make  him  pay  dearly  for  it,  and  that's  what  I 
want  you — to  talk  to  you  about.  Of  course  he  denies 
of  everything,  they  always  do." 

Mrs.  Flynn  sighed  at  this  disgusting  perfidy, 
brightening  however  when  her  son  began  to  discuss  the 
problem.  But  she  talked  so  long  and  he  got  so  sleepy 
at  last  that  he  was  very  glad  when  she  went  to  bed 
again.  Secretly  she  was  both  delighted  and  disap- 
pointed at  his  easy  acceptance  of  her  dreadful  revela- 
tion; fearing  a  terrible  outburst  of  anger  she  had  kept 
the  knowledge  from  him  for  a  long  time.  She  was 
glad  to  escape  that,  it  is  true,  but  she  rather  hungered 
for  some  flashing  reprobation  of  this  unknown  beast, 
this  Stringer,  She  swore  she  would  bring  him  to 
book,  but  she  felt  old  and  lonely,  and  Johnny  was  a 
strange  son,  not  very  virile.  The  mother  had  told 
Pomona  terrifying  prophetic  tales  of  what  Johnny 
would  do,  what  he  would  be  certain  to  do;  he  would, 


POMONA'S  BABE  299 

for  instance,  murder  that  Stringer  and  drive  Pomony 
into  the  street;  of  course  he  would.  Yet  here  he  was, 
quite  calm  about  it,  as  if  he  almost  liked  it.  Well,  she 
had  told  him,  she  could  do  no  more,  she  would  leave 
it  to  him. 

In  the  morning  Johnny  greeted  his  sister  with  ten- 
der aflFection  and  at  evening,  having  sent  her  to  bed,  he 
and  his  mother  resumed  their  discussion. 

"Do  you  know,  mother,"  he  said,  "she  is  quite  hand- 
some, I  never  noticed  it  before." 

Mrs.  Flynn  regarded  him  with  desperation  and  then 
informed  him  that  his  sister  was  an  ugly  disgusting 
little  trollop  who  ought  to  be  birched. 

"No,  no,  you  are  wrong,  mother,  it's  bad,  but  it's 
all  right." 

"You  think  you  know  more  about  such  things  than 
your  own  mother,  I  suppose."  Mrs.  Flynn  sniffed  and 
glared. 

He  said  it  to  her  gently :  "Yes." 

She  produced  a  packet  of  notepaper  and  envelopes 
"The  Monster  Packet  for  a  Penny."  all  complete  with 
a  wisp  of  pink  blotting  paper  and  a  penholder  without 
a  nib,  which  she  had  bought  at  the  chandler's  on  her 
way  home  that  evening,  along  with  some  sago  and 
some  hair  oil  for  Johnny  whose  stiff  unruly  hair  pro- 
voked such  spasms  of  rage  in  her  bosom  that  she  de- 
clared that  she  was  "sick  to  death  of  it."  On  the 
supper  table  lay  also  a  platter,  a  loaf,  a  basin  of  mus- 
tard pickle,  and  a  plate  with  round  lengths  of  cheese 
shaped  like  small  candles. 

"Devil   blast  him!"   muttered   Mrs.    Flynn   as    she 


^00  POMONA'S  BABE 

fetched  from  a  cupboard  shelf  a  sour-looking  bottle 
labelled  Writing  Fluid,  a  dissolute  pen,  and  requested 
Johnny  to  compose  a  letter  to  Stringer — devil  blast 
him! — telling  him  of  the  plight  of  her  daughter  Pomona 
Flynn,  about  whom  she  desired  him  to  know  that  she 
had  already  consulted  her  lawyers  and  the  chief  of 
police  and  intimating  that  unless  she  heard  from  him 
satisfactory  by  the  day  after  tomorrow  the  matter 
would  pass  out  of  her  hands. 

"That's  no  good,  it's  not  the  way,"  declared  her  son 
thoughtfully ;  Mrs.  Flynn  therefore  sat  humbly  con- 
fronting him  and  awaited  the  result  of  his  cogitations. 
Johnny  was  not  a  very  robust  youth,  but  he  was  grow- 
ing fast  now,  since  he  had  taken  up  with  running; 
he  was  very  fleet,  so  Mrs.  Flynn  understood,  and  had 
already  won  a  silver-plated  hot  water  jug,  which  they 
used  for  the  milk.  But  still  he  was  thin  and  not  tall, 
his  dark  hair  was  scattered ;  his  white  face  was  a  nice 
face,  thought  Mrs.  Flynn,  very  nice,  only  there  was  al- 
ways something  strange  about  his  clothes.  She 
couldn't  help  that  now,  but  he  had  such  queer  fancies, 
there  was  no  other  boy  in  the  street  whose  trousers 
were  so  baggy  or  of  such  a  colour.  His  starched 
collars  were  all  right  of  course,  beautifully  white  and 
shiny,  she  got  them  up  herself,  and  they  set  his  neck 
off  nicely. 

"All  we  need  do,"  her  son  broke  in,  "is  just  tell  him." 

"Tell  him?" 

"Yes,  just  tell  him  about  it — it's  very  unfortunate 
' — and  ask  him  to  come  and  see  you.     I  hope,  though," 


POMONA'S  BABE  301 

he  paused,  "I  liope  they  won't  want  to  go  and  get 
married." 

"lie  ouijht  to  be  made  to,  devil  blast  him,"  cried 
Mrs.  Flynn,  "only  she's  frightened,  she  is;  afraid  of 
her  mortal  life  of  him!  We  don't  want  him  here, 
neither,  she  says  he's  a  nasty  horrible  man." 

Johnny  sat  dumb  for  some  moments.  Pomona  was  a 
day  girl  in  service  at  a  restaurant.  Stringer  was  a  clerk 
to  an  auctioneer.  The  figure  of  his  pale  little  sister 
shrinking  before  a  ruffian  (whom  he  figured  as  a  fat 
man  with  a  red  beard)  startled  and  stung  him. 

"Besides,"  continued  Mrs.  Flynn,  "he's  just  going  to 
be  married  to  some  woman,  some  pretty  judy,  God 
help  her  ...  in  fact,  as  like  as  not  he's  married  to  her 
already  by  now.  No,  I  gave  up  that  idea  long  ago,  I 
did,  before  I  told  you,  long  ago." 

"We  can  only  tell  him  about  Pomony  then,  and  ask 
him  what  he  would  like  to  do." 

"What  he  would  like  to  do,  well,  certainly!"  pro- 
tested the  widow. 

"And  if  he's  a  decent  chap,"  continued  Johnny 
serenely,  "it  will  be  all  right,  there  won't  be  any  diffi- 
culty.    If  he  ain't,  then  we  can  do  something  else." 

His  mother  was  reluctant  to  concur  but  the  boy  had 
his  way.  He  sat  with  his  elbows  on  the  table,  his 
head  pressed  in  his  hands,  but  he  could  not  think  out 
the  things  he  wanted  to  say  to  this  man.  He  would 
look  up  and  stare  around  the  room  as  if  he  were  in  a 
strange  place,  though  it  was  not  strange  to  him  at  all 
for  he  had  lived  in  it  many  years.     There  was  not 


302  POAIONA'S  BABE 

much  furniture  in  the  apartment,  yet  there  was  but  lit- 
tle space  in  it.  The  big  table  was  covered  with  Amer- 
ican cloth,  mottled  and  shiny.  Two  or  three  chairs  full 
of  age  and  discomfort  stood  upon  a  carpet  that  was  full 
of  holes  and  stains.  There  were  some  shelves  in  a  re- 
cess, an  engraving  framed  in  maple  of  the  player 
scene  from  "Hamlet,"  and  near  by  on  the  wall  hung  a 
gridiron  whose  prongs  were  woven  round  with  col- 
oured wools  and  decorated  with  satin  bows.  Mrs. 
Flynn  had  a  passion  for  vases,  and  two  of  these  florid 
objects  bought  at  a  fair  companioned  a  clock  whose 
once  snowy  face  had  long  since  turned  sallow  because 
of  the  oil  Mrs.  Flynn  had  administered  "to  make  it  go 
properly." 

But  he  could  by  no  means  think  out  this  letter; 
his  mother  sat  so  patiently  watching  him  that  he  asked 
her  to  go  and  sit  in  the  other  room.  Then  he  sat  on, 
sniffing,  as  if  thinking  with  his  nose,  while  the  room 
began  to  smell  of  the  smoking  lamp.  He  was  remem- 
bering how  years  ago,  when  they  were  little  children,  he 
had  seen  Pomony  in  her  nightgown  and,  angered  with 
her  for  some  petty  reason,  he  had  punched  her  on  the 
side.  Pomony  had  turned  white,  she  could  not  speak, 
she  could  not  breathe.  He  had  been  momentarily 
proud  of  that  blow,  it  was  a  good  blow,  he  had  never 
hit  another  boy  like  that.  But  Pomony  had  fallen 
into  a  chair,  her  face  tortured  with  pain,  her  eyes 
filled  with  tears  that  somehow  would  not  fall.  Then 
a  fear  seized  him,  horrible,  piercing,  frantic:  she  was 
dying,  she  would  die,  and  there  was  nothing  he  could 
do  to  stop  her !     In  passionate  remorse  and  pity  he  had 


POMONA'S  BABE  303 

flung  himself  before  her,  kissing  her  feet — they  were 
small  and  beautiful  though  not  very  clean, — until  at 
last  he  had  felt  Pomony's  arms  droop  caressingly 
around  him  and  heard  Pomony's  voice  speaking  lov- 
ingly and  forgivingly  to  him. 

After  a  decent  interval  his  mother  returned  to  him. 

"What  are  we  going  to  do  about  her?"  she  asked, 
"she'll  have  to  go  away." 

".\way!  Do  you  mean  go  to  a  home?  No,  but 
why  go  away  ?  Pm  not  ashamed ;  what  is  there  to  be 
ashamed  of?" 

"Who  the  deuce  is  going  to  look  after  her?  You 
talk  like  a  tom-fool — yes,  you  are,"  insisted  Mrs. 
Flynn  passionately.  "Pm  out  all  day  from  one  week's 
end  to  the  other.  She  can't  be  left  alone,  and  the  people 
downstairs  are  none  too  civil  about  it  as  it  is.  She'll 
have  to  go  to  the  workhouse,  that's  all." 

Johnny  was  aghast,  indignant,  and  really  angry. 
He  would  never  never  consent  to  such  a  thing ! 
Pomony !  Into  a  workhouse !  She  should  not,  she 
should  stop  at  home,  here,  like  always,  and  have  a 
nurse. 

"Fool !"  muttered  his  mother,  with  castigating  scorn. 
"Where's  the  money  for  nurses  and  doctors  to  come 
from?     Pve  got  no  money  for  such  things!" 

"Pll  get  some !"  declared  Johnny  hotly. 

"Where?" 

"Pll  sell  something." 

"What?" 

"Pll  save  up." 

"Plow?" 


304  POMONA'S  BABE 

"And  I'll  borrow  some." 

"You'd  better  shut  up  now  or  I'll  knock  your  head 
off,"  cried  his  mother.  "Fidding  and  fadding  about — 
you're  daft!" 

"She  shan't  go  to  any  workhouse!" 

"Fool !"  repeated  his  mother,  revealing  her  disgust  at 
his  hopeless  imbecility. 

"I  tell  you  she  shall  not  go  there,"  shouted  the  boy, 
slung  into  angry  resentment  by  her  contempt. 

"She  shall,  she  must." 

"I  say  she  shan't!" 

"O  don't  be  such  a  blasted  fool,"  cried  the  distracted 
woman,  rising  from  her  chair. 

Johnny  sprang  to  his  feet  almost  screaming,  "You 
are  the  blasted  fool,  you,  you !" 

Mrs.  Flynn  seized  a  table  knife  and  struck  at  her 
son's  face  with  it.  He  leaped  away  in  terror,  his 
startled  appearance,  glaring  eyes  and  strained  figure 
£0  affecting  Mrs.  Flynn  that  she  dropped  the  knife,  and, 
sinking  into  her  chair,  burst  into  peals  of  hysterical 
laughter.  Recovering  himself  the  boy  hastened  to  the 
laughing  woman.  The  maddening  peals  continued  and 
increased,  shocking  him,  unnerving  him  again ;  she  was 
dying,  she  would  die.  His  mother's  laughter  had  al- 
ways been  harsh  but  delicious  to  him,  it  was  so  infec- 
tious, but  this  was  demoniacal,  it  was  horror. 

"O,  don't,  don't,  mother,  don't,"  he  cried,  fondling 
her  and  pressing  her  yelling  face  to  his  breast.  'But 
she  pushed  him  fiercely  away  and  the  terrifying  laughter 
continued  to  sear  his  very  soul  until  he  could  bear  it  no 


POMONA'S   BABE  305 

longer.  He  struck  at  her  shoulders  with  clenched  fist 
and  shook  her  f renziedly,  frantically,  crying : 

"Stop  it,  stop,  O  stop  it,  she'll  go  mad,  stop  it,  stop." 

He  was  almost  exhausted,  when  suddenly  Pomona 
rushed  into  the  room  in  her  nightgown.  Her  long 
black  hair  tumbled  in  lovely  locks  about  her  pale  face 
and  her  shoulder ;  her  feet  were  bare. 

"O  Johnny,  what  are  you  doing?"  gasped  his  little 
pale  sister  Pomony,  who  seemed  so  suddenly,  so  un- 
believably, turned  into  a  woman.     "Let  her  alone." 

She  pulled  the  boy  away,  fondling  and  soothing 
their  distracted  mother  until  Mrs.  Flynn  partially  re- 
covered. 

"Come  to  bed  now,"  commanded  Pomona,  and  Mrs. 
Flynn  thereupon,  still  giggling,  followed  her  child. 
When  he  was  alone  trembling  Johnny  turned  down  the 
lamp  flame  which  had  filled  the  room  with  smoky 
fumes.  His  glance  rested  upon  the  table  knife;  the 
room  was  silent  and  oppressive  now.  He  glared  at  the 
picture  of  Hamlet,  at  the  clock  with  the  oily  face,  at 
the  notepaper  lying  white  upon  the  table.  They  had 
all  turned  into  quivering  semblances  of  the  things  they 
M^ere;  he  was  crying. 


II 


A  letter,  indited  in  the  way  he  desired,  w^as  posted 
by  Johnny  on  his  way  to  work  next  morning.  He  was 
clerk  in  the  warehouse  of  a  wholesale  provision  mer- 
chant and  he  kept  tally,  in  some  underground  cellars 
carpeted  with  sawdust,  of  hundreds  of  sacks  of  sugar 


3o6  POMONA'S  BABE 

and  cereals,  tubs  of  butter,  of  lard,  of  treacle,  chests 
of  tea,  a  regular  promontory  of  cheeses,  cases  of 
candles,  jam,  starch,  and  knife  polish,  many  of  them 
stamped  with  the  mysterious  words  "Factory  Bulked." 
He  did  not  like  those  words,  they  sounded  ugly  and  their 
meaning  was  obscure.  Sometimes  he  took  the  cheese- 
tasting  implement  from  the  foreman's  bench  and,  when 
no  one  was  looking,  pierced  it  into  a  fine  Cheddar  or 
Stilton,  withdrawing  it  with  a  little  cylinder  of  cheese 
lying  like  a  small  candle  in  the  curved  blade.  Then  he 
would  bite  off  the  piece  of  rind,  restore  it  neatly  to 
the  body  of  the  cheese,  and  drop  the  other  candle-like 
piece  into  his  pocket.  Sometimes  his  pocket  was  so  full 
of  cheese  that  he  was  reluctant  to  approach  the  fore- 
man fearing  he  would  smell  it.  He  was  very  fond  of 
cheese.     All  of  them  liked  cheese. 

The  Flynns  waited  several  days  for  a  reply  to  the 
letter,  but  none  came.  Stringer  did  not  seem  to  think 
it  called  for  any  reply.  At  the  end  of  a  week  Johnny 
wrote  again  to  his  sister's  seducer.  Pomona  had  given 
up  her  situation  at  the  restaurant;  her  brother  was 
conspicuously  and  unfailingly  tender  to  her.  He  saved 
what  money  he  could,  spent  none  upon  himself,  and 
brought  home  daily  an  orange  or  an  egg  for  the  girl. 
He  wrote  a  third  letter  to  the  odious  Stringer,  not  at 
all  threateningly,  but  just  invitingly,  persuasively. 
And  he  waited,  but  waited  in  vain.  Then  in  that  un- 
derground cheese  tunnel  where  he  worked  he  began  to 
plot  an  alternate  course  of  action,  and  as  time  passed 
bringing  no  recognition  from  Stringer  his  plot  began 
to   crystallize  and   determine  itself.     It  was   nothing 


POMONA'S   BABE  307 

else  than  to  murder  the  man;  he  would  kill  him,  he 
had  thought  it  out,  it  could  be  done.  He  would 
wait  for  him  near  Stringer's  lodgings  one  dark  night 
and  beat  out  his  brains  with  a  club.  All  that  was 
necessary  then  would  be  to  establish  an  alibi.  For  some 
days  Johnny  dwelt  so  gloatingly  upon  the  details  of 
this  retribution  that  he  forgot  about  the  alibi.  By  this 
time  he  had  accumulated  from  his  mother — for  he  could 
never  once  bring  himself  to  interrogate  Pomona  person- 
ally about  her  misfortune — sufficient  description  of 
Stringer  to  recognize  him  among  a  thousand,  so  he 
thought.  It  appeared  that  he  was  not  a  large  man 
with  a  red  beard,  but  a  small  man  with  glasses,  spats, 
and  a  slight  limp,  who  always  attended  a  certain  club 
of  which  he  was  the  secretary  at  a  certain  hour  on 
certain  nights  in  each  week.  To  Johnny's  mind,  the 
alibi  was  not  merely  important  in  itself,  it  was  a  roman- 
tic necessity.  And  it  was  so  easy ;  it  would  be  quite 
sufficient  for  Johnny  to  present  himself  at  the  public 
library  where  he  was  fairly  well  known.  The  library 
was  quite  close  to  Stringer's  lodgings  and  they,  fortu- 
nately, were  in  a  dark  quiet  little  street.  He  would 
borrow  a  book  from  the  odd-eyed  man  in  the  reference 
department,  retire  to  one  of  the  inner  study  rooms,  and 
at  half  past  seven  creep  out  unseen,  creep  out,  creep 
out  with  his  thick  stick  and  wait  by  the  house  in  that 
dark  quiet  little  street ;  it  was  very  quiet,  and  it  would 
be  very  dark;  wait  there  for  him  all  in  tlie  dark,  just 
creep  quietly  out — and  wait.  But  in  order  to  get  that 
alibi  quite  perfect  he  would  have  to  take  a  friend  with 
him  to  the  library  room,  so  that  the  friend  could  swear 


3o8  POMONA'S  BABE 

that  he  had  really  been  there  all  the  time,  because  it 
was  just  possible  the  odd-eyed  man  wouldn't  be  pre- 
pared to  swear  to  it;  he  did  not  seem  able  to  see 
very  much,  but  it  was  hard  to  tell  with  people  like 
that. 

Johnny  Flynn  had  not  told  any  of  his  friends  about 
his  sister's  misfortune;  in  time,  time  enough,  they  were 
bound  to  hear  of  it.  Of  all  his  friends  he  rejected  the 
close  ones,  those  of  whom  he  was  very  fond,  and 
chose  a  stupid  lump  of  a  fellow,  massive  and  nasal, 
named  Donald.  Though  awkward  and  fat  he  had 
joined  Johnny's  running  club ;  Johnny  had  trained  him 
for  his  first  race.  But  he  had  subjected  Donald  to 
such  exhausting  exercise,  what  with  skipping,  gym- 
nastics, and  tiring  jaunts,  that  though  his  bulk  disap- 
peared his  strength  went  with  it;  to  Johnny's  great 
chagrin  he  grew  weak,  and  failed  ignominiously  in  the 
race.  Donald  thereafter  wisely  rejected  all  offers  of 
assistance  and  projected  a  training  system  of  his  own. 
For  weeks  he  tramped  miles  into  hilly  country,  in  the 
heaviest  of  boots  to  the  soles  of  which  he  had  nailed 
some  thick  pads  of  lead.  When  he  donned  his  light 
running  shoes  for  his  second  race  he  displayed  an 
agility  and  suppleness,  a  god-like  ease,  that  won  not 
only  the  race,  but  the  admiration  and  envy  of  all  the 
competitors.  It  was  this  dull  lumpish  Donald  that 
Johnny  fixed  upon  to  assist  him.  He  was  a  great  fool 
and  it  would  not  matter  if  he  did  get  himself  into 
trouble.  Even  if  he  did  Johnny  could  get  him  out  again, 
by  confessing  to  the  police ;  so  that  was  all  right.  He 
asked  Donald  to  go  to  the  library  with  him  on  a  certain 


POMONA'S  BABE  309 

evening  to  read  a  book  called  "Rasselas" — it  was  a 
grand  book,  very  exciting — and  Donald  said  he  would 
go.  He  did  not  propose  to  tell  Donald  of  his  homi- 
cidal intention;  he  would  just  sit  him  down  in  the 
library  with  "Rasselas"  while  he  himself  sat  at  another 
table  behind  Donald,  ves,  behind  him;  even  if  Donald 
noticed  him  creeping  out  he  would  say  he  was  only 
going  to  the  counter  to  get  another  book.  It  was  all 
quite  clear,  and  safe.  He  would  be  able  to  creep  out, 
creep  out,  rush  up  to  the  dark  little  street — yes,  he 
would  ask  Donald  for  a  piece  of  that  lead  and  wrap  it 
round  the  head  of  the  stick — he  would  creep  out,  and 
in  ten  minutes  or  twenty  he  would  be  back  in  the 
library  again  asking  for  another  book  or  sitting  down 
by  Donald  as  if  he  had  not  been  outside  the  place,  as  if 
nothing  had  happened  as  far  as  he  was  concerned, 
nothing  at  all ! 

The  few  intervening  days  passed  with  vexing  de- 
liberation. Each  night  seemed  the  best  of  all  possible 
nights  for  the  deed,  each  hour  that  Stringer  survived 
seemed  a  bad  hour  for  the  world.  They  were  bad  slow 
hours  for  Johnny,  but  at  last  the  day  dawned,  passed, 
darkness  came,  and  the  hour  rushed  upon  him. 

He  took  his  stick  and  called  for  Donald. 

"Can't  come,"  said  Donald,  limping  to  the  door  in 
answer  to  Johnny's  knock.     "I  been  and  hurt  my  leg." 

For  a  moment  Johnny  was  full  of  an  inward  silent 
blasphemy  that  flashed  from  a  sudden  tremendous 
hatred,  but  he  said  calmly : 

"But  still  .  .  .  no,  you  haven't  .  .  .  what  have  you 
hurt  it  for?" 


3IO  POMONA'S  BABE 

Donald  was  not  able  to  deal  with  such  locution.  He 
ignored  it  and  said : 

"My  knee-cap,  my  shin,  Oo,  come  and  have  a  look. 
We  was  mending  a  flue  ...  it  was  the  old  man's 
wheelbarrow.  .  .  .  Didn't  I  tell  him  of  it  neither !" 

"O,  you  told  him  of  it?" 

Johnny  listened  to  his  friend's  narration  very  ab- 
stractedly and  at  last  went  ofH  to  the  library  by  him- 
self. As  he  walked  away  he  was  conscious  of  a  great 
feeling  of  relief  welling  up  in  him.  He  could  not  get 
an  alibi  without  Donald,  not  a  sure  one,  so  he  would  not 
be  able  to  do  anything  tonight.  He  felt  relieved,  he 
whistled  as  he  walked,  he  was  happy  again,  but  he  went 
on  to  the  library.  He  was  going  to  rehearse  the  alibi 
by  himself,  that  was  the  wise  thing  to  do,  of  course,  re- 
hearse it,  practise  it ;  it  would  be  perfect  next  week 
when  Donald  was  better.  So  he  did  this.  He  got  out 
a  book  from  the  odd-eyed  man,  who  strangely  enough 
was  preoccupied  and  did  not  seem  to  recognize  him. 
It  was  disconcerting,  that ;  he  specially  wanted  the  man 
to  notice  him.  He  went  into  the  study  room  rather 
uneasily.  Ten  minutes  later  he  crept  out  unseen, 
carrying  his  stick — he  had  forgotten  to  ask  Donald  for 
the  piece  of  lead — and  was  soon  lurking  in  the  shadow 
of  the  dark  quiet  little  street. 

It  was  a  perfect  spot,  there  could  not  be  a  better 
place,  not  in  the  middle  of  a  town.  The  house  had  an 
area  entry  through  an  iron  gate;  at  the  end  of  a  brick 
pathway,  over  a  coalplate,  five  or  six  stone  steps  led 
steeply  up  to  a  narrow  front  door  with  a  brass  letter 
box,  a  brass  knocker,  and  a  glazed  fanlight  painted  29. 


POMONA'S  BABE  311 

The  windows  too  were  narrow  and  the  whole  house 
had  a  squeezed  appearance.  A  church  clock  chimed 
eight  strokes.  Johnny  began  to  wonder  what  he  would 
do,  what  would  happen,  if  Stringer  were  suddenly  to 
come  out  of  that  gateway.  Should  he — would  he — 
could  he  .  .  .  ?  And  then  the  door  at  the  top  of  the 
steps  did  open  wide  and  framed  there  in  the  lighted 
space  young  Flynn  saw  the  figure  of  his  own  mother. 

She  came  down  the  steps  alone  and  he  followed  her 
short  jerky  footsteps  secretly  until  she  reached  the 
well-lit  part  of  the  town,  where  he  joined  her.  It  was 
quite  simple,  she  explained  to  him  with  an  air  of  supe- 
rior understanding:  she  had  just  paid  Mr.  Stringer  a 
visit,  waiting  for  letters  from  that  humbug  had  made 
her  "popped."  Had  he  thought  she  would  creep  on 
her  stomach  and  beg  for  a  fourpenny  piece  when  she 
could  put  him  in  jail  if  all  were  known,  as  she  would 
too,  if  it  hadn't  been  for  her  children,  poor  little  father- 
less things?  No,  middling  boxer,  not  that!  So  she 
had  left  off  work  early,  had  gone  and  caught  him  at  his 
lodgings  and  taxed  him  with  it.  He  denied  of  it ;  he  was 
that  cocky,  it  so  mortified  her,  that  she  had  snatched  up 
the  clock  and  thrown  it  at  him.     Yes,  his  own  clock. 

"But  it  was  only  a  little  one,  though.  He  was  fright- 
ened out  of  his  life  and  run  upstairs.  Then  his  land- 
lady came  rushing  in.  I  told  her  all  about  it,  every- 
thing, and  she  was  that  'popped'  with  him  she  give  me 
the  name  and  address  of  his  feons — their  banns  is  been 
put  up.  She  made  him  come  downstairs  and  face  me, 
and  his  face  was  as  white  as  the  driven  snow.  Johnny, j 
it  was.      He  was  obliged  to  own  up.     The  lady  said  to 


312  POMONA'S  BABE 

him  'Whatever  have  you  been  at,  Mr.  Stringer,'  she 
said  to  him,  *I  can't  believe  it,  knowing  you  for  ten 
years,  you  must  have  forgot  yourself.'  O,  a  proper 
understanding  it  was,"  declared  Mrs.  Flynn  finally ;  ''his 
lawyers  are  going  to  write  to  us  and  put  everything  in 
order ;  Duckle  &  Hoole,  they  are." 

Again  a  great  feeling  of  relief  welled  up  in  the  boy's 
breast,  as  if,  having  been  dragged  into  a  horrible  vortex 
he  had  been  marvellously  cast  free  again. 

The  days  that  followed  were  blessedly  tranquil, 
though  Johnny  was  often  smitten  with  awe  at  the 
thought  of  what  he  had  contemplated.  That  fool,  Don- 
ald, too,  one  evening  insisted  on  accompanying  him  to 
the  library  where  he  spent  an  hour  of  baffled  under- 
standing over  the  pages  of  "Rasselas."  But  the  lawyers 
Duckle  &  Hoole  aroused  a  tumult  of  hatred  in  Mrs. 
Flynn.  They  pared  down  her  fond  anticipations  to  the 
minimum ;  they  put  so  much  slight  upon  her  family,  and 
such  a  gentlemanly  decorum  and  generous  forbearance 
upon  the  behaviour  of  their  client,  Mr.  Stringer,  that 
she  became  inarticulate.  When  informed  that  that 
gentleman  desired  no  intercourse  whatsoever  with  any 
Flynn  or  the  offspring  thereof  she  became  speechless. 
Shortly,  Messrs.  Duckle  &  Hoole  begged  to  submit 
for  her  approval  a  draft  agreement  embodying  their 
client's  terms,  one  provision  of  which  was  that  if  the 
said  Flynns  violated  the  agreement  by  taking  any 
proceedings  against  the  said  Stringer  they  should  there- 
upon ipso  facto  willy  nilly  or  whatever  forfeit  and 
pay  unto  him  the  said  Stringer  not  by  way  of  penalty 


POMONA'S   BABE  313 

but  as  damages  the  sum  of  £100.  Whereupon  Mrs. 
Flynn  recovered  her  speech  and  suffered  a  little  tender 
irony  to  emerge. 

The  shoemaker,  whose  opinion  upon  tiiis  draft  agree- 
ment was  solicited,  confessed  himself  as  much  baffled 
by  its  phraseology  as  he  was  indignant  at  its  tenor 
and  terms. 

"That  man,"  he  declared  solemnly  to  Johnny,  "ought 
to  have  his  brain  knocked  out" ;  and  he  conveyed  by 
subtle  intimations  to  the  boy  that  that  was  the  course 
he  would  favour  were  he  himself  standing  in  Johnny's 
shoes.  "One  dark  night,"  he  had  roared  with  a  dread- 
ful glare  in  his  eyes,  "with  a  neat  heavy  stick!" 

The  Flynns  also  consulted  a  cabman  who  lodged  in 
the  house.  His  legal  qualifications  appeared  to  lie  in 
the  fact  that  he  had  driven  the  private  coach  of  a  major 
general  whose  son,  now  a  fruit  farmer  in  British  Co- 
lumbia, had  once  been  entered  for  the  bar.  The  cab- 
man was  a  very  positive  and  informative  cabman. 
"List  and  learn,"  he  would  say,  "list  and  learn":  and 
he  would  regale  Johnny,  or  any  one  else,  with  an 
oration  to  which  you  might  listen  as  hard  as  you  liked 
but  from  which  you  could  not  learn.  He  was  husky, 
with  a  thick  red  neck  and  the  cheek  bones  of  a  horse. 
Having  perused  the  agreement  with  one  eye  judicially 
cocked,  the  other  being  screened  by  a  drooping  lid 
adorned  with  a  glowing  nodule,  he  carefully  refolded 
the  folios  and  returned  them  to  the  boy : 

"Any  judge — who  was  up  to  snuff — would  impound 
that  dockyment." 


314  POMONA'S  BABE 

"What's  that?" 

"They  would  impound  it,"  repeated  the  cabman  smil- 
ing wryly. 

"But  what's  impound  it?     What  for?" 

"I  tell  you  it  would  be  impounded,  that  dockyment 
would,"  asseverated  the  cabman.  Once  more  he  took 
the  papers  from  Johnny,  opened  them  out,  reflected 
upon  them  and  returned  them  again  without  a  word. 
Catechism  notwithstanding,  the  oracle  remained  im- 
pregnably  mystifying. 

The  boy  continued  to  save  his  pocket  money.  His 
mother  went  about  her  work  with  a  grim  air,  having 
returned  the  draft  agreement  to  the  lawyers  with  an 
ungracious  acceptance  of  the  terms. 

One  April  evening  Johnny  went  home  to  an  empty 
room;  Pomona  was  out.  He  prepared  his  tea  and 
afterwards  sat  reading  "Tales  of  a  Grandfather," 
That  was  a  book  if  anybody  wanted  a  book!  When 
darkness  came  he  descended  the  stairs  to  enquire  of 
the  shoemaker's  wife  about  Pomony,  he  was  anxious. 
The  shoemaker's  wife  was  absent  too  and  it  was  late 
when  she  returned  accompanied  by  his  mother. 

Pomona's  hour  had  come — they  had  taken  her  to  the 
Vv'orkhouse — only  just  in  time — a  little  boy — they  were 
both  all  right — he  was  an  uncle. 

His  mother's  deceit  stupified  him,  he  felt  shamed, 
deeply  shamed,  but  after  a  while  that  same  recogniz- 
able feeling  of  relief  welled  up  in  his  breast  and 
drenched  him  with  satisfactions.  After  all  what  could 
it  matter  where  a  person  was  born,  or  where  one  died, 
as  long  as  you  had  your  chance  of  growing  up  at  all, 


POMONA'S   BABF  315 

and,  if  lucky,  of  growing  up  all  right.  But  this  babe 
had  got  to  bear  the  whole  burden  of  its  father's  mis- 
deed, though;  it  had  got  to  behave  itself  or  it  would 
have  to  pay  its  father  a  hundred  pounds  as  damages. 
Perhaps  that  was  what  that  queer  bit  of  poetry  meant, 
"The  child  is  father  of  the  man." 

His  mother  swore  that  they  were  very  good  and  clean 
and  kind  at  the  workhouse,  everything  of  the  best  and 
most  expensive;  there  was  nothing  she  would  have 
liked  better  than  to  have  gone  there  herself  when 
Johnny  and  Pomony  were  1:)orn. 

"And  if  ever  I  have  any  more,"  Mrs.  Flynn  sighed, 
but  with  profound  conviction,  "I  will  certainly  go 
there." 

Johnny  gave  her  half  the  packet  of  peppermints  he 
had  bought  for  Pomona.  With  some  of  his  saved  money 
he  bought  her  a  bottle  of  stout — she  looked  tired  and 
sad — she  was  very  fond  of  stout.  The  rest  of  the 
money  he  gave  her  for  to  buy  Pomony  something  when 
.she  visited  her.  He  would  not  go  himself  to  visit  her, 
not  there.  He  spent  the  long  intervening  evenings  at 
the  library — the  odd-eyed  man  had  shown  him  a  lovely 
book  about  birds.  He  was  studying  it.  On  Sundays, 
in  the  spring,  he  was  going  out  to  catch  birds  himself, 
out  in  the  country,  with  a  catapult.  The  cuckoo  was  a 
marvellous  bird.  So  was  a  titlark.  Donald  Gower 
found  a  goatsucker's  nest  last  year. 

Then  one  day  he  ran  from  work  all  the  way  home, 
knowing  Pomony  would  at  last  be  there.  He  walked 
slowly  up  the  street  to  recover  his  breath.  He  stepped 
up  the  stairs,  humming  quite  casually,  and  tapped  at 


3l6  POMONA'S  BABE 

the  door  of  their  room — he  did  not  know  why  he 
tapped.  He  heard  Pomony's  voice  calHng  him.  A 
thinner  paler  Pomony  stood  by  the  hearth,  nursing  a 
white-clothed  bundle,  the  fat  pink  babe. 

"O,  my  dear !"  cried  her  ecstatic  brother,  "the  beauty 
he  is  !  what  larks  we'll  have  with  him  !" 

He  took  Pomona  into  his  arms,  crushing  the  infant 
against  her  breast  and  his  own.  But  she  did  not  mind. 
She  did  not  rebuke  him,  she  even  let  him  dandle  her 
precious  babe. 

"Look,  what  is  his  name  to  be,  Pomony?  Let's  call 
him  Rasselas." 

Pomona  looked  at  him  very  doubtfully. 

"Or  would  you  like  William  Wallace  then,  or  Robert 
Bruce?" 

"I  shall  call  him  Johnny,"  said  Pomona. 

"O,  that's  silly!"  protested  her  brother.  But 
Pomona  was  quite  positive  about  this.  He  fancied 
there  were  tears  in  her  eyes,  she  was  always  tender- 
hearted. 

"I  shall  call  him  Johnny,  Johnny  Flynn." 


THE  HURLY-BURLY 


THE   HURLY-BURLY 

THE  Weetmans,  mother,  son,  and  daughter, 
lived  on  a  thriving  farm.  It  was  small 
enough,  God  knov^s,  but  it  had  always  been 
a  turbulent  place  of  abode.  For  the  servant  it  was: 
"Phemy,  do  this,"  or  "Phemy,  have  you  done  that?" 
from  dawn  to  dark,  and  even  from  dark  to  dawn  there 
was  a  hovering  of  unrest.  The  widow  Weetman,  a 
partial  invalid,  was  the  only  figure  that  manifested  any 
semblance  of  tranquillity,  and  it  was  a  misleading  one 
for  she  sat  day  after  day  on  her  large  hams  knitting 
and  nodding  and  lifting  her  grey  face  only  to  grumble, 
her  spectacled  eyes  transfixing  the  culprit  with  a  basi- 
lisk glare.  And  her  daughter  Alice,  the  housekeeper, 
who  had  a  large  face,  a  dominating  face,  in  some  re- 
spects she  was  all  face,  was  like  a  blast  in  a  corridor 
with  her  "Maize  for  the  hens,  Phemy  ! — More  firewood, 
Phemy ! — Who  has  set  the  trap  in  the  harness  room  ? — 
Come  along ! — Have  you  scoured  the  skimming  pans  ? — 
Why  not ! — Where  are  you  idling  ? — Come  along, 
Phemy,  I  have  no  time  to  waste  this  morning,  you 
really  must  help  me."  It  was  not  only  in  the  house  that 
this  cataract  of  industry  flowed ;  outside  there  was 
activity  enough   for  a   regiment.     A   master- farmer's 

319 


320  THE  HURLY-BURLY 

work  consists  largely  of  a  series  of  conversations  with 
other  master- farmers,  a  long-winded  way  of  doing  long- 
headed things,  but  Glastonbury  Weetman,  the  son,  was 
not  like  that  at  all;  he  was  the  incarnation  of  energy, 
always  doing  and  doing,  chock-full  of  orders,  adju- 
rations, objurgatives,  blame,  and  blasphemy.  That  was 
the  kind  of  place  Phemy  Madigan  worked  at.  No  one 
could  rest  on  laurels  there.  The  farm  and  the  home 
possessed  everybody,  lock,  stock,  and  barrel ;  work  was 
like  a  tiger,  it  ate  you  up  implacably.  The  Weetmans 
did  not  mind — they  liked  being  eaten  by  such  a  tiger. 

After  six  or  seven  years  of  this  Alice  went  back  to 
marry  an  old  sweetheart  in  Canada,  where  the  Weet- 
mans had  originally  come  from,  but  Phemy's  burden 
was  in  no  way  lessened  thereby.  There  were  as  many 
things  to  wash  and  sew  and  darn;  there  was  always 
a  cart  of  churns  about  to  dash  for  a  train  it  could  not 
possibly  catch,  or  a  horse  to  shoe  that  could  not  possi- 
bly be  spared.  Weetman  hated  to  see  his  people  merely 
walking :  "Run  over  to  the  barn  for  that  hay-fork,"  or 
"Slip  across  to  the  ricks,  quick  now,"  he  would  cry,  and 
if  ever  an  unwary  hen  hampered  his  own  path  it  did  so 
only  once — and  no  more.  His  labourers  were  mere 
things  of  flesh  and  blood,  but  they  occasionally  resented 
his  ceaseless  flagellations.  Glas  Weetman  did  not  like 
to  be  impeded  or  controverted;  one  day  in  a  rage  he 
had  smashed  that  lumbering  loon  of  a  carter  called 
Gathercole.     For  this  he  was  sent  to  jail  for  a  month. 

The  day  after  he  had  been  sentenced  Phemy  Madi- 
gan, alone  in  the  house  with  Mrs.  Weetman,  had  waked 
at  the  usual  early  hour.     It  was  a  foggy  September 


THE   HURLY-BURLY  -^21 

morning;  Sampson  and  his  boy  Daniel  were  clattering 
pails  in  the  dairy  shed.  The  girl  felt  sick  and  gloomy 
as  she  dressed ;  it  was  a  wretched  house  to  work  in, 
crickets  in  the  kitchen,  cockroaches  in  the  garret,  spiders 
and  mice  everywhere.  It  was  an  old  long  low  house ; 
.she  knew  that  when  she  descended  the  stairs  the  walls 
would  be  stained  with  autumnal  dampness,  the  banisters 
and  rails  oozing  with  moisture.  She  wished  she  was  a 
lady  and  married  and  living  in  a  palace  fifteen  stories 
high. 

It  was  fortunate  that  she  was  big  and  strong,  though 
she  had  been  only  a  charity  girl  taken  from  the  work- 
house by  the  Weetmans  when  she  was  fourteen  years 
oM.  That  was  seven  years  ago.  It  was  fortunate  that 
she  was  fed  well  at  the  farm,  very  well  indeed ;  it  was 
the  one  virtue  of  the  place.  But  her  meals  did  not 
counterbalance  things ;  that  farm  ate  up  the  body  and 
blood  of  people.  And  at  times  the  pressure  was 
charged  with  a  special  excitation,  as  if  a  taut  elastic 
thong  had  been  plucked  and  released  with  a  rever- 
berating ping. 

It  was  so  on  this  morning.  Mrs.  Weetman  was  dead 
in  her  bed. 

At  that  crisis  a  new  sense  descended  upon  the  girl, 
a  sense  of  responsibility.  She  was  not  in  fear,  she 
felt  no  grief  or  surprise.  It  concerned  her  in  some 
way,  but  she  herself  was  unconcerned,  and  she  slid  with- 
out effort  into  the  position  of  mistress  of  the  farm.  She 
opened  a  window  and  looked  out  of  doors.  A  little 
way  off  a  boy  with  a  red  scarf  stood  by  an  open  gate. 

"Oi  .  .  .  oi,  kup,  kup,  kup !"  he  cried  to  the  cows  in 


322  THE  HURLY-BURLY 

that  field.  Some  of  the  cows  having  got  up  stared 
amiably  at  him,  others  sat  on  ignoring  his  hail,  while 
one  or  two  plodded  deliberately  towards  him.  "Oi  .  .  . 
oi,  kup,  kup,  kup !" 

"Lazy  rascal,  that  boy,"  remarked  Phemy,  "we  shall 
have  to  get  rid  of  him.  Dan'l!  Come  here,  Dan'l!" 
she  screamed,  waving  her  arm  wildly.     "Quick!" 

She  sent  him  away  for  police  and  doctor.  At 
the  inquest  there  were  no  relatives  in  England  who 
could  be  called  upon,  no  witnesses  other  than  Phemy, 
After  the  funeral  she  wrote  a  letter  to  Glastonbury 
Weetman  in  jail  informing  him  of  his  bereavement, 
but  to  this  he  made  no  reply.  Meanwhile  the  work 
of  the  farm  was  pressed  forward  under  her  control,  for 
though  she  was  revelling  in  her  personal  release  from 
the  torment  she  would  not  permit  others  to  share  her 
intermission.  She  had  got  Mrs.  Weetman's  keys  and 
her  box  of  money.  She  paid  the  two  men  and  the 
boy  their  wages  week  by  week.  The  last  of  the  barley 
was  reaped,  the  oats  stacked,  the  roots  hoed,  the  churns 
sent  daily  under  her  supervision.  And  always  she  was 
bustling  the  men. 

"O  dear  me,  these  lazy  rogues !"  she  would  com- 
plain to  the  empty  rooms,  "they  waste  time,  so  it's 
robbery,  it  is  robbery.  You  may  wear  yourself  to  the 
bone  and  what  does  it  signify  to  such  as  them?  All 
the  responsibility,  too ! — They  would  take  your  skin  if 
they  could  get  it  off  you — and  they  can't !" 

She  kept  such  a  sharp  eye  on  the  corn  and  meal  and 
eggs  that  Sampson  got  surly.  She  placated  him  by 
handing  him  Mr.  Weetman's  gun  and  a  few  cartridges, 


THE   HURLY-BURLY  323 

saying:  "J"st  shoot  me  a  couple  of  rabbits  over  in  the 
warren  when  you  got  time."  At  the  end  of  the  day 
Mr.  Sampson  had  not  succeeded  in  kilHng  a  rabbit  so 
he  kept  the  gun  and  the  cartridges  many  more  days. 
Phemy  was  really  happy.  The  gloom  of  the  farm  had 
disappeared.  The  farmhouse  and  everything  about  it 
looked  beautiful,  beautiful  indeed  with  its  yard  full  of 
ricks,  the  pond  full  of  ducks,  the  fields  full  of  sheep 
and  cattle,  and  the  trees  still  full  of  leaves  and  birds. 
She  flung  maize  about  the  yard;  the  hens  scampered 
towards  it  and  the  young  pigs  galloped,  quarrelling 
over  the  grains  which  they  groped  and  snuffed  for, 
grinding  each  one  separately  in  their  iron  jaws,  while  the 
white  pullets  stalked  delicately  among  them,  picked  up 
the  maize  seeds,  One,  Two,  Three,  and  swallowed  them 
like  ladies.  Sometimes  on  cold  mornings  she  w^ould 
go  outside  and  give  an  apple  to  the  fat  bay  pony  when 
he  galloped  back  from  the  station.  He  would  stand 
puffing  with  a  kind  of  rapture,  the  wind  from  his  nos- 
trils discharging  in  the  frosty  air  vague  shapes  like 
smoky  trumpets.  Presently  upon  his  hide  a  little  ball 
of  liquid  mysteriously  suspired,  grew,  slid,  dropped 
from  his  flanks  into  the  road.  And  then  drops  would 
begin  to  come  from  all  parts  of  him  until  the  road 
beneath  was  dabbled  by  a  shower  from  his  dew-distilling 
outline.     Phemy  would  say : 

"The  wretches !  They  were  so  late  they  drove  him 
near  distracted,  poor  thing.  Lazy  rogues,  but  wait  till 
master  comes  back,  they'd  better  be  careful !" 

And  if  any  friendly  person  in  the  village  asked  her: 
"How   are  you   getting   on   up   there,   Phemy?"   she 


324  THE  HURLY-BURLY 

would  reply,  "Oh,  as  well  as  you  can  expect  with  so 
much  to  be  done — and  such  men."  The  interlocutor 
might  hint  that  there  was  no  occasion  in  the  circum- 
stances to  distress  oneself,  but  then  Phemy  would  be 
vexed.  To  her,  honesty  was  as  holy  as  the  sabbath  to 
a  little  child.  Behind  her  back  they  jested  about  her 
foolishness ;  but,  after  all,  wisdom  isn't  a  process,  it's  a 
result,  it's  the  fruit  of  the  tree.  One  can't  be  wise,  one 
can  only  be  fortunate. 

On  the  last  day  of  her  Elysium  the  workhouse  master 
and  the  chaplain  had  stalked  over  the  farm  shooting 
partridges.  In  the  afternoon  she  met  them  and  asked 
for  a  couple  of  birds  for  Weetman's  return  on  the 
morrow.  The  workhouse  was  not  far  away,  it  was  on 
a  hill  facing  west,  and  at  sunset  time  its  windows  would 
often  catch  the  glare  so  powerfully  that  the  whole 
building  seemed  to  burn  like  a  box  of  contained 
and  smokeless  fire.     Very  beautiful  it  looked  to  Phemy. 

II 

The  men  had  come  to  work  punctually  and  Phemy 
herself  found  so  much  to  do  that  she  had  no  time  to 
give  the  pony  an  apple.  She  cleared  the  kitchen  once 
and  for  all  of  the  pails,  guns,  harness,  and  implements 
that  so  hampered  its  domestic  intention,  and  there  were 
abundant  signs  elsewhere  of  a  new  impulse  at  work 
in  the  establishment.  She  did  not  know  at  what  hour 
to  expect  the  prisoner  so  she  often  went  to  the  garden 
gate  and  glanced  up  the  road.  The  night  had  been  wild 
with  windy  rain,  but  morn  was  sparklingly  clear  though 
breezy  still.     Crisp  leaves  rustled  about  the  road  where 


THE  HURLY-BURLY  321; 

the  polished  chestnuts  beside  the  parted  husks  lay  in 
numbers,  mixed  with  coral  buds  of  the  yews.  The 
sycamore  leaves  were  black  rags,  but  the  delicate  elm 
foliage  fluttered  down  like  yellow  stars.  There  was  a 
brown  field  neatly  adorned  with  white  coned  heaps  ot 
turnips,  behind  it  a  small  upland  of  deeply  green  lu- 
cerne, behind  that  nothing  but  blue  sky  and  rolling 
cloud.  The  turnips,  washed  by  the  rain,  were  creamy 
polished  globes. 

When  at  last  he  appeared  she  scarcely  knew  him. 
Glas  Weetman  was  a  big.  though  not  fleshy,  man  of 
thirty  with  a  large  boyish  face  and  a  flat  bald  head. 
Now  he  had  a  thick  dark  beard.  He  was  hungry,  but 
his  first  desire  was  to  be  shaved.  He  stood  before 
the  kitchen  mirror,  first  clipping  the  beard  away  with 
scissors,  anfl  as  he  lathered  the  remainder  he  said : 

"Well,  it's  a  bad  state  of  things  this,  my  sister  dead 
and  my  mother  gone  to  America.     What  shall  us  do?" 

He  perceived  in  the  glass  that  she  was  smiling. 

"There's  naught  funny  in  it.  my  comic  gal."  he 
bawled  indignantly,  "what  are  you  laughing  at?" 

"I  wer'n't  laughing.     It's  your  mother  that's  dead." 

"My  mother  that's  dead.  I  know." 

"And  Miss  Alice  that's  gone  to  America." 

"To  America,  I  know,  I  know,  so  you  can  stop  mak- 
ing your  bullock's  eyes  and  get  me  something  to  eat. 
What's  been  going  on  here?" 

She  gave  him  an  outline  of  alTairs.  He  looked  at 
her  sternly  when  he  asked  her  about  his  sweetheart. 

"Has  Rosa  P.cauchamp  been  along  here?" 

"No,"   said    Phemy,  and   he   was   silent.     She   was 


326  THE  HURLY-BURLY 

surprised  at  the  question.  The  Beauchamps  were  such 
respectable  high-up  people  that  to  Phemy's  simple  mind 
they  could  not  possibly  favour  an  alliance,  now,  with  a 
man  that  had  been  in  prison :  it  was  absurd,  but  she  did 
not  say  so  to  him.  And  she  was  bewildered  to  find  that 
her  conviction  was  wrong,  for  Rosa  came  along  later 
in  the  day  and  everything  between  her  master  and  his 
sweetheart  was  just  as  before;  Phemy  had  not  divined 
so  much  love  and  forgiveness  in  high-up  people. 

It  was  the  same  with  everything  else.  The  old  harsh 
rushing  life  was  resumed,  Weetman  turned  to  his  farm 
with  an  accelerated  vigour  to  make  up  for  the  lost  time 
and  the  girl's  golden  week  or  two  of  ease  became  an 
unforgotten  dream.  The  pails,  the  guns,  the  harness, 
crept  back  into  the  kitchen.  Spiders,  cockroaches,  and 
mice  were  more  noticeable  than  ever  before,  and  Weet- 
man himself  seemed  embittered,  harsher.  Time  alone 
could  never  still  him,  there  was  a  force  in  his  frame, 
a  buzzing  in  his  blood.  But  there  was  a  difiference  be- 
tween them  now ;  Phemy  no  longer  feared  him.  She 
obeyed  him,  it  is  true,  with  eagerness,  she  worked  in 
the  house  like  a  woman  and  in  the  fields  like  a  man. 
They  ate  their  meals  together,  and  from  this  dissonant 
comradeship  the  girl  in  a  dumb  kind  of  way  began  to 
love  him. 

One  April  evening  on  coming  in  from  the  fields  he 
found  her  lying  on  the  couch  beneath  the  window,  dead 
plumb  fast  asleep,  with  no  meal  ready  at  all.  He  flung 
his  bundle  of  harness  to  the  flags  and  bawled  angrily 
to  her.     To  his  surprise  she  did  not  stir.     He  was 


THE  HURLY-BURLY  327 

somewhat  abashed,  he  stepped  over  to  look  at  her.  She 
was  lying  on  her  side.  There  was  a  large  rent  in  her 
bodice  between  sleeve  and  shoulder;  her  flesh  looked 
soft  and  agreeable  to  him.  Her  shoes  had  slij^ped  oflF 
to  the  floor;  her  lips  were  folded  in  a  sleepy  pout, 

"Why,  she's  quite  a  pretty  cob,"  he  murmured. 
"She's  all  right,  she's  just  tired,  the  Lord  above  knows 
what  for." 

But  he  could  not  rouse  the  sluggard.  Then  a  fancy 
moved  him  lo  lift  her  in  his  arms;  he  carried  her  from 
the  kitchen  and  staggering  up  the  stairs  laid  the  sleeping 
girl  on  her  own  bed.  He  then  went  downstairs  and  ate 
pie  and  drank  beer  in  the  candle-light,  guffawing  once 
or  twice,  "A  pretty  cob,  rather."  As  he  stretched  him- 
self after  the  meal  a  new  notion  amused  him:  he  put  a 
plateful  of  food  upon  a  tray  together  with  a  mug  of 
beer  and  the  candle.  Doffing  his  heavy  boots  and  leg- 
gings he  carried  the  tray  into  Phemy's  room.  And  he 
stopped  there. 

in 

The  new  circumstance  that  thus  slipped  into  her  life 
did  not  eflfect  any  noticeable  alteration  of  its  general 
contour  and  progress,  Weetman  did  not  change  towards 
her.  Phemy  accepted  his  mastership  not  alone  because 
she  loved  him  but  because  her  powerful  sense  of  loyalty 
covered  all  the  possible  opprobrium.  She  did  not 
seem  to  mind  his  continued  relations  with  Rosa. 

Towards  midsummer  one  evening  Glastonburv  came 
in  in  the  late  dusk.     Phemy  was  there  in  the  darkened 


328  THE  HURLY-BURLY 

kitchen.  "Master,"  she  said  immediately  he  entered. 
He  stopped  before  her.  She  continued:  "Something's 
happened." 

"Huh,  while  the  world  goes  popping  round  some- 
thing shall  always  happen." 

"It's  me — I'm  took — a  baby,  master,"  she  said.  He 
stood  stock-still.  His  face  was  to  the  light,  she  could 
not  see  the  expression  on  his  face,  perhaps  he  wanted 
to  embrace  her. 

"Let's  have  a  light,  sharp,"  he  said  in  his  brusque 
way.  "The  supper  smells  good  but  I  can't  see  what 
I'm  smelling,  and  I  can  only  fancy  what  I  be  looking 
at." 

She  lit  the  candles  and  they  ate  supper  in  silence. 
Afterwards  he  sat  away  from  the  table  with  his  legs 
outstretched  and  crossed,  hands  sunk  into  pockets,  pon- 
dering while  the  girl  cleared  the  table.  Soon  he  put  his 
powerful  arm  around  her  waist  and  drew  her  to  sit  on 
his  knees. 

"Are  ye  sure  o'  that?"  he  demanded. 

She  was  sure. 

"Quite?" 

She  was  quite  sure. 

"Ah,  well  then,"  he  sighed  conclusively,  "we'll  be 
married." 

The  girl  sprang  to  her  feet.  "No,  no,  no — how  can 
5'ou  be  married — you  don't  mean  that — not  married — 
there's  Miss  Beauchamp !"  She  paused  and  added,  a 
little  unsteadily:     "She's  your   true   love,   master." 

"Ay,  but  I'll  not  wed  her,"  he  cried  sternly.  "If 
there's   no  gainsaying   this   that's   come  on  you,   I'll 


THE  HURLY-BURLY  329 

stand  to  my  guns.  It's  right  and  proper  for  we  to 
have  a  marriage." 

His  great  thick-fingered  hands  rested  upon  his  knees  ; 
the  candles  threw  a  wash  of  light  upon  his  polished 
leggings ;  he  stared  into  the  fireless  grate. 

"But  we  do  not  want  to  do  that,"  said  the  girl,  dully 
and  doubtfully.  "You  have  given  your  ring  to  her, 
you've  given  her  your  word.  I  don't  want  you  to  do 
this  for  me.     It's  all  right,  master,  it's  all  right." 

"Are  ye  daft?"  he  cried.  "I  tell  you  we'll  wed. 
Don't  keep  clacking  about  Rosa.  .  .  .  I'll  stand  to  my 
■guns.*'  He  paused  before  adding:  "She'd  gimme 
the  rightabout,  fine  now — don't  you  see,  stupid — but 
I'll  not  give  her  the  chance." 

Her  eyes  were  lowered.  "She's  your  true  love, 
muSter." 

"What  would  become  of  you  and  your  child?  Ye 
couldn't  bide  here!" 

"No,"  said  the  trembling  girl. 

"I'm  telling  you  what  we  must  do,  modest  and 
proper;  there's  naught  else  to  be  done,  and  I'm  mid- 
dling glad  of  it,  I  am.  Life's  a  see-saw  affair.  I'm 
middling  glad  of  this." 

So,  soon,  without  a  warning  to  any  one.  least  of  all  to 
Rosa  Beauchamp.  they  were  married  by  the  registrar. 
The  change  in  her  domestic  status  produced  no  other 
change;  in  marrying  Weetman  she  had  married  all 
his  ardour,  she  was  swept  into  its  current.  She  helped 
to  milk  cows,  she  boiled  nauseating  messes  for  pigs, 
chopped  mangolds,  mixed  meal,  and  sometimes  drove 
a  harrow  in  his  windy  fields.     Though  they  slept  to- 


330  THE  HURLY-BURLY 

gether  she  was  still  his  servant.  Sometimes  he 
called  her  his  "pretty  little  cob"  and  then  she  knew  he 
was  fond  of  her.  But  in  general  his  custom  was  dis- 
illusioning. His  way  with  her  was  his  way  with  his 
beasts ;  he  knew  what  he  wanted,  it  was  easy  to  get.  If 
for  a  brief  space  a  little  romantic  flower  began  to  bud 
in  her  breast  it  was  frozen  as  a  bud,  and  the  vague 
longing  disappeared  at  length  from  her  eyes.  And  she 
became  aware  that  Rosa  Beauchamp  was  not  yet  done 
with ;  somewhere  in  the  darkness  of  the  fields  Glaston- 
bury still  met  her.     Phemy  did  not  mind. 

In  the  new  year  she  bore  him  a  son  that  died  as  it 
came  to  life.  Glas  was  angry  at  that,  as  angry  as  if 
he  had  lost  a  horse.  He  felt  that  he  had  been  duped, 
that  the  marriage  had  been  a  stupid  sacrifice,  and  in 
this  he  was  savagely  supported  by  Rosa.  And  yet 
Phemy  did  not  mind;  the  farm  had  got  its  grip  upon 
her,  it  was  consuming  her  body  and  blood. 

Weetman  was  just  going  to  drive  into  town;  he  sat 
fuming  in  the  trap  behind  the  fat  bay  pony. 

"Bring  me  that  whip  from  the  passage,"  he  shouted ; 
"there's  never  a  damn  thing  handy!" 

Phemy  appeared  with  the  whip.  "Take  me  with 
you,"  she  said. 

"God-a-mighty !  What  for?  I  be  comin'  back  in 
an  hour.  They  ducks  want  looking  over  and  you've 
all  the  taties  to  grade." 

She  stared  at  him  irresolutely. 

"And  who's  to  look  after  the  house?  You  know  it 
won't  lock  up — the  key's  lost.     Get  up  there!" 


THE  HURLY-BURLY  33 1 

He  cracked  his  whip  in  the  air  as  the  pony  dashed 
away. 

In  the  summer  Phemy  fell  sick,  her  arm  swelled 
enormously.  The  doctor  came  again  and  again.  It 
was  blood-poisoning,  caught  from  a  diseased  cow  that 
she  had  milked  with  a  cut  finger.  A  nurse  arrived  but 
Phemy  knew  she  was  doomed,  and  though  tortured  with 
pain  she  was  for  once  vexed  and  protestant.  For  it 
was  a  June  night,  soft  and  nubile,  with  a  marvellous 
moon ;  a  nightingale  threw  its  impetuous  garland  into 
the  air.  She  lay  listening  to  it,  and  thinking  w^ith  sad 
pleasure  of  the  time  when  Glastonbury  was  in  prison, 
how  grand  she  was  in  her  solitude,  ordering  everything 
for  the  best  and  working  superbly.  She  wanted  to  go 
on  and  on  for  evermore,  though  she  knew  she  had 
never  known  peace  in  maidenhood  or  marriage.  The 
troubled  waters  of  the  world  never  ceased  to  flow ;  in 
the  night  there  was  no  rest — only  darkness.  Nothing 
could  emerge  now.  She  was  leaving  it  all  to  Rosa 
Beauchamp.  Glastonbury  was  gone  out  somewhere — 
perhaps  to  meet  Rosa  in  the  fields.  There  w^as  the 
nightingale,  and  it  was  very  bright  outside. 

"Nurse,"  moaned  the  dying  girl,  "what  was  I  born 
into  the  world  at  all  for?" 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 

This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


SEP  1  7  194.6 
APR  11  1955 


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